FTH   WHEEL 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 


UNIT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGF.LF.il 


'Why,  Breck,  don't  be  absurd  !     I  wouldn't  marry  you  for 
anything-  in  the  world'  " — Page  2^ 


THE 

FIFTH  WHEEL 

A  NOFEL 


BY 

OLIVE  HIGGINS  PROUTY 

AUTHOR  OF 
"BOBBIE,  GENERAL  MANAGER" 


D 


HAROLD  A 


WITH  POUR  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
JAMES  MONTGOMERY  FLAGG 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1915,  1916,  by 
THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages. 


DEDICATED 

TO 

MY  MOTHER 


2132119 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  RUTH  VARS  COMES  OUT 

II.  BRECKENRIDGE  SEWALL  . 

III.  EPISODE  OF  A  SMALL  DOG 

IV.  A  BACK-SEASON  DEBUTANTE 

V.  THE  UNIMPORTANT  FIFTH  WHEEL 

VI.  BRECK  SEWALL  AGAIN  . 

VII.  THE  MILLIONS  WIN 

VIII.  THE  HORSE-SHOW  .... 

IX.  CATASTROPHE          .... 

X.  A  UNIVERSITY  TOWN     . 

XI.  A  WALK  IN  THE  RAIN 

XII.  A  DINNER  PARTY  .... 

XIII.  LUCY  TAKES  UP  THE  NARRATIVE  . 

XIV.  BOB  TURNS  OUT  A  CONSERVATIVE  . 
XV.  ANOTHER   CATASTROPHE 

XVI.  A  FAMILY  CONFERENCE 

XVII.  RUTH  GOES  TO  NEW  YORK  . 

XVIII.  A  YEAR  LATER      .... 

XIX.  RUTH  RESUMES  HER  OWN  STORY  . 

XX.  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL  GAINS  WINGS 

XXI.  IN  THE  SEWALL  MANSION  . 

XXII.  THE  PARADE 

XXIII.  AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  BRECK 

XXIV.  THE  OPEN  DOOR  .... 
XXV.  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING    . 

XXVI.  THE  POT  OF  GOLD  .... 

XXVII.  VAN  DE  VERB'S       .... 

XXVIII.  A  CALL  FROM  BOB  JENNINGS 

XXIX.  LONGINGS        .        .        . 

XXX.  AGAIN  LUCY  NARRATES 

XXXI.  RUTH  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS  . 

XXXII.  BOB  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS  Too 


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ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  'Why,  Breck,  don't  be  absurd !    I  wouldn't  marry  you 

for  anything  in  the  world'  "  Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


'  'Men  seem  to  want  to  make  just  nice  soft  pussy-cats 
out  of  us,  with  ribbons  round  our  necks,  and  hear 
us  purr' " 128 

'Straight  ahead  she  gazed;  straight  ahead  she  rode; 

unafraid,  eager,  hopeful;  the  flag  her  only  staff"  .     170 

*I  was  the  only  one  in  her  whole  establishment  whom 

she  wasn't  obliged  to  treat  as  a  servant  and  menial"    202 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 


THE   FIFTH   WHEEL 

CHAPTER  I 

RUTH   VARS   COMES   OUT 

I  SPEND  my  afternoons  walking  alone  in  the 
country.  It  is  sweet  and  clean  out-of-doors,  and 
I  need  purifying.  My  wanderings  disturb  Lucy.  She 
is  always  on  the  lookout  for  me,  in  the  hall  or  living- 
room  or  on  the  porch,  especially  if  I  do  not  come  back 
until  after  dark. 

She  needn't  worry.  I  am  simply  trying  to  fit  to- 
gether again  the  puzzle-picture  of  my  life,  dumped 
out  in  terrible  confusion  in  Edith's  sunken  garden, 
underneath  a  full  September  moon  one  midnight  three 
weeks  ago. 

Lucy  looks  suspiciously  upon  the  portfolio  of  theme 
paper  I  carry  underneath  my  arm.  But  in  this  corner 
of  the  world  a  portfolio  of  theme  paper  and  a  pile 
of  books  are  as  common  a  part  of  a  girl's  paraphernalia 
as  a  muff  and  a  shopping-bag  on  a  winter's  day  on 
Fifth  Avenue.  Lucy  lives  in  a  university  town.  The 
university  is  devoted  principally  to  the  education  of 
men,  but  there  is  a  girls'  college  connected  with  it, 

i 


2  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

so  if  I  am  caught  scribbling  no  one  except  Lucy 
needs  to  wonder  why. 

I  have  discovered  a  pretty  bit  of  woods  a  mile 
west  of  Lucy's  house,  and  an  unexpected  rustic  seat 
built  among  a  company  of  murmurous  young  pines 
beside  a  lake.  Opposite  the  seat  is  an  ecstatic  little 
maple  tree,  at  this  season  of  the  year  flaunting  all 
the  pinks  and  reds  and  yellows  of  a  fiery  opal.  There, 
sheltered  by  the  pines,  undisturbed  except  by  a  scurry- 
ing chipmunk  or  two  or  an  inquisitive,  gray-tailed 
squirrel,  I  sit  and  write. 

I  heard  Lucy  tell  Will  the  other  day  (Will  is  my 
intellectual  brother-in-law)  that  she  was  really  anx- 
ious about  me.  She  believed  I  was  writing  poetry! 
"And  whenever  a  healthy,  normal  girl  like  Ruth  be- 
gins to  write  poetry,"  she  added,  "after  a  catastrophe 
like  hers,  look  out  for  her.  Sanitariums  are  filled 
with  such." 

Poetry!  I  wish  it  were.  Poetry  indeed!  Good 
heavens!  I  am  writing  a  defense. 

I  am  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  grown-up 
family,  all  married  now  except  myself  and  a  con- 
firmed bachelor  brother  in  New  York.  We  are  the 
Vars  of  Hilton,  Massachusetts,  cotton  mill  owners 
originally,  but  now  a  little  of  everything  and  scat- 
tered from  Wisconsin  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  I  am 
a  New  England  girl,  not  the  timid,  resigned  type  one 
usually  thinks  of  when  the  term  is  used,  but  the 
kind  that  goes  away  to  a  fashionable  boarding-school 
when  she  is  sixteen,  has  an  elaborate  coming-out  party 


RUTH  VARS  COMES  OUT  3 

two  years  later,  and  then  proves  herself  either  a  suc- 
cess or  a  failure  according  to  the  number  of  invita- 
tions she  receives  and  the  frequency  with  which  her 
dances  are  cut  into  at  the  balls.  She  is  supposed  to 
feel  grateful  for  the  sacrifices  that  are  made  for  her 
debut,  and  the  best  way  to  show  it  is  by  becoming 
engaged  when  the  time  is  right  to  a  man  one  rung 
higher  up  on  the  social  ladder  than  she. 

I  had  no  mother  to  guide  me  through  these  in- 
tricacies. My  pilot  was  my  ambitious  sister-in-law, 
Edith,  who  married  Alec  when  I  was  fifteen,  re- 
modeled our  old  240  Main  Street,  Hilton,  Mass., 
into  a  very  grand  and  elegant  mansion  and  christened 
it  The  Homestead.  Hilton  used  to  be  just  a  nice, 
typical  New  England  city.  It  had  its  social  ambitions 
and  discontents,  I  suppose,  but  no  more  pronounced 
than  in  any  community  of  fifty  or  sixty  thousand 
people.  It  was  the  Summer  Colony  with  its  liveried 
servants,  expensive  automobiles,  and  elaborate  enter- 
taining that  caused  such  discontent  in  Hilton. 

I've  seen  perfectly  happy  and  good-natured  babies 
made  cross  and  irritable  by  putting  them  into  a  four- 
foot-square  nursery  yard.  The  wall  of  wealth  and 
aristocracy  around  Hilton  has  had  somewhat  the  same 
effect  upon  the  people  that  it  confines.  If  a  social 
barrier  of  any  sort  appears  upon  the  horizon  of 
my  sister-in-law  Edith,  she  is  never  happy  until  she 
has  climbed  over  it.  She  was  in  the  very  midst  of 
scaling  that  high  and  difficult  barrier  built  up  about 


4  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

Hilton  by  the  Summer  Colonists,  when  she  married 
Alec. 

It  didn't  seem  to  me  a  mean  or  contemptible  ob- 
ject. To  endeavor  to  place  our  name — sunk  into  un- 
just oblivion  since  the  reverses  of  our  fortune — in 
the  front  ranks  of  social  distinction,  where  it  belonged, 
impressed  me  as  a  worthy  ambition.  I  was  glad  to 
be  used  in  Edith's  operations.  Even  as  a  little  girl 
something  had  rankled  in  my  heart,  too,  when  our 
once  unrestricted  fields  and  hills  gradually  became 
posted  with  signs  such  as,  "Idlewold,  Private 
Grounds,"  "Cedarcrest,  No  Picnickers  Allowed," 
"Grassmere,  No  Trespassing." 

I  wasn't  eighteen  when  I  had  my  coming-out  party. 
It  was  decided,  and  fully  discussed  in  my  presence, 
that,  as  young  as  I  was,  chance  for  social  success  would 
be  greater  this  fall  than  a  year  hence,  when  the  list 
of  debutantes  among  our  summer  friends  promised 
to  be  less  distinguished.  It  happened  that  many  of 
these  debutantes  lived  in  Boston  in  the  winter,  which 
isn't  very  far  from  Hilton,  and  Edith  had  already 
laid  out  before  me  her  plan  of  campaign  in  that  city, 
where  she  was  going  to  give  me  a  few  luncheons  and 
dinners  during  the  month  of  December,  and  possibly 
a  Ball  if  I  proved  a  success. 

If  I  proved  a  success!  No  young  man  ever  started 
out  in  business  with  more  exalted  determination  to 
make  good  than  I.  I  used  to  lie  awake  nights  and 
worry  for  fear  the  next  morning's  mail  would  not 
contain  some  cherished  invitation  or  other.  And  when 


RUTH  VARS  COMES  OUT  5 

it  did,  and  Edith  came  bearing  it  triumphantly  up  to 
my  room,  where  I  was  being  combed,  brushed  and 
polished  by  her  maid,  and  kissed  me  ecstatically  on 
the  brow  and  whispered,  "You  little  winner,  you!" 
I  could  have  run  up  a  flag  for  relief  and  joy. 

I  kept  those  invitations  stuck  into  the  mirror  of 
my  dressing-table  as  if  they  were  badges  of  honor. 
Edith  used  to  make  a  point  of  having  her  luncheon 
and  dinner  guests  take  off  their  things  in  my  room. 
I  knew  it  was  because  of  the  invitations  stuck  in 
the  mirror,  and  I  was  proud  to  be  able  to  return 
something  for  all  the  money  and  effort  she  had  ex- 
pended. 

It  appeared  incumbent  upon  me  as  a  kind  of  holy 
duty  to  prove  myself  a  remunerative  investment.  The 
long  hours  spent  in  the  preparation  of  my  toilette; 
the  money  paid  out  for  my  folderols;  the  deceptions 
we  had  to  resort  to  for  the  sake  of  expediency;  every- 
thing— schemes,  plans  and  devices — all  appeared  to 
me  as  simply  necessary  parts  of  a  big  and  difficult 
contest  I  had  entered  and  must  win.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  me  then  that  my  efforts  were  unadmirable. 
When  at  the  end  of  my  first  season  Edith  and  I  dis- 
covered to  our  delight,  when  the  Summer  Colony  re- 
turned to  our  hills,  that  our  names  had  become  fix- 
tures on  their  exclusive  list  of  invitations,  I  felt  as 
much  exaltation  as  any  runner  who  ever  entered  a 
Marathon  and  crossed  the  white  tape  among  the  first 
six. 

There!     That's  the  kind  of  New  England  girl  I 


6  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

am.  I  offer  no  excuses.  I  lay  no  blame  upon  my 
sister-in-law.  There  are  many  New  England  girls 
just  like  me  who  have  the  advantage  of  mothers — 
tender  and  solicitous  mothers  too.  But  even  mothers 
cannot  keep  their  children  from  catching  measles  if 
there's  an  epidemic — not  unless  they  move  away. 
The  social  fever  in  my  community  was  simply  rag- 
ing when  I  was  sixteen,  and  of  course  I  caught  it. 

Even  my  education  was  governed  by  the  demands 
of  society.  The  boarding-school  I  went  to  was  se- 
lected because  of  its  reputation  for  wealth  and  ex- 
clusiveness.  I  practised  two  hours  a  day  on  the  piano, 
had  my  voice  trained,  and  sat  at  the  conversation- 
French  table  at  school,  because  Edith  impressed  upon 
me  that  such  accomplishments  would  be  found  con- 
venient and  convincing.  I  learned  to  swim  and  dive, 
play  tennis  and  golf,  ride  horseback,  dance  and  skate, 
simply  because  if  I  was  efficient  in  sports  I  would 
prove  popular  at  summer  hotels,  country  clubs  and 
winter  resorts.  Edith  and  I  attended  symphony  con- 
certs in  Boston  every  Friday  afternoon,  and  opera 
occasionally,  not  because  of  any  special  passion  for 
music,  but  to  be  able  to  converse  intelligently  at  din- 
ner parties  and  teas. 

It  was  not  until  I  had  been  out  two  seasons  that  I 
met  Breckenridge  Sewall.  When  Edith  introduced 
me  to  society  I  was  younger  than  the  other  girls  of 
my  set,  and  to  cover  up  my  deficiency  in  years  I  af- 
fected a  veneer  of  worldly  knowledge  and  sophistica- 
tion that  was  misleading.  It  almost  deceived  myself. 


RUTH  VARS  COMES  OUT  7 

At  eighteen  I  had  accepted  as  a  sad  truth  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  world,  and  especially  that  of  men.  I  was 
very  blase,  very  resigned — at  least  the  two  top  layers 
of  me  were.  Down  underneath,  way  down,  I  know 
now  I  was  young  and  innocent  and  hopeful.  I  know 
now  that  my  first  meeting  with  Breckenridge  Sewall 
was  simply  one  of  the  stratagems  that  the  contest  I 
had  entered  required  of  me.  I  am  convinced  that  there 
was  no  thought  of  anything  but  harmless  sport  in 
my  encounter. 

Breckenridge  Sewall's  mother  was  the  owner  of 
Grassmere,  the  largest  and  most  pretentious  estate 
that  crowns  our  hills.  Everybody  bowed  down  to 
Mrs.  Sewall.  She  was  the  royalty  of  the  Hilton  Sum- 
mer Colony.  Edith's  operations  had  not  succeeded 
in  piercing  the  fifty  thousand  dollar  wrought-iron 
fence  that  surrounded  the  acres  of  Grassmere.  We 
had  never  been  honored  by  one  of  Mrs.  F.  Rockridge 
Sewall's  heavily  crested  invitations.  We  had  drunk 
tea  in  the  same  drawing-room  with  her;  we  had  been 
formally  introduced  on  one  occasion;  but  that  was 
all.  She  imported  most  of  her  guests  from  New  York 
and  Newport.  Even  the  Summer  Colonists  considered 
an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Sewall  a  high  mark  of  dis- 
tinction. 

Her  only  son  Breckenridge  was  seldom  seen  in 
Hilton.  He  preferred  Newport,  Aix  les  Bains,  or 
Paris.  It  was  reported  among  us  girls  that  he  con- 
sidered Hilton  provincial  and  was  distinctly  bored 
at  any  attempt  to  inveigle  him  into  its  society.  Most 


8  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

of  us  had  never  met  him,  but  we  all  knew  him  by 
sight.  Frequently  during  the  summer  months  he 
might  be  seen  speeding  along  the  wide  state  road 
that  leads  out  into  the  region  of  Grassmere,  seated 
in  his  great,  gray,  deep-purring  monster,  hatless,  head 
ducked  down,  hair  blown  straight  back  and  eyes  half- 
closed  to  combat  the  wind. 

One  afternoon  Edith  and  I  were  invited  to  a  late 
afternoon  tea  at  Idlewold,  the  summer  residence  of 
Mrs.  Leonard  Jackson.  I  was  wearing  a  new  gown 
which  Edith  had  given  me.  It  had  been  made  at  an 
expensive  dressmaker's  of  hers  in  Boston.  I  remem- 
ber my  sister-in-law  exclaimed  as  we  strolled  up  the 
cedar-lined  walk  together,  "My,  but  you're  stunning 
in  that  wistaria  gown.  It's  a  joy  to  buy  things  for 
you,  Ruth.  You  set  them  off  so.  I  just  wonder  who 
you'll  slaughter  this  afternoon." 

It  was  that  afternoon  that  I  met  Breckenridge 
Sewall. 

It  was  a  week  from  that  afternoon  that  two  dozen 
American  Beauties  formed  an  enormous  and  fra- 
grant center-piece  on  the  dining-room  table  at  old  240 
Main  Street.  Suspended  on  a  narrow  white  ribbon 
above  the  roses  Edith  had  hung  from  the  center 
light  a  tiny  square  of  pasteboard.  It  bore  in  en- 
graved letters  the  name  of  Breckenridge  Sewall. 

The  family  were  deeply  impressed  when  they  came 
in  for  dinner.  The  twins,  Oliver  and  Malcolm,  who 
were  in  college  at  the  time,  were  spending  part  of 
their  vacation  in  Hilton ;  and  my  sister  Lucy  was  there 


RUTH  VARS  COMES  OUT  9 

too.  There  was  quite  a  tableful.  I  can  hear  now 
the  Oh's  and  Ah's  as  I  sat  nonchalantly  nibbling  a 
cracker. 

"Not  too  fast,  Ruth,  not  too  fast!"  anxious  Alec 
had  cautioned. 

'Tor  the  love  o'  Mike!  Hully  G!"  had  ejaculated 
Oliver  and  Malcolm,  examining  the  card. 

"O  Ruth,  tell  us  about  it,"  my  sister  Lucy  in  awed 
tones  had  exclaimed. 

I  shrugged.  "There's  nothing  to  tell,"  I  said.  "I 
met  Mr.  Sewall  at  a  tea  not  long  ago,  as  one  is  apt 
to  meet  people  at  teas,  that's  all." 

Edith  from  the  head  of  the  table,  sparkling,  too 
joyous  even  to  attempt  her  soup,  had  sung  out,  "I'm 
proud  of  you,  rascal!  You're  a  wonder,  you  are! 
Listen,  people,  little  sister  here  is  going  to  do  some- 
thing splendid  one  of  these  days — she  is !" 


CHAPTER  II 

BRECKENRIDGE   SEWALL 

T  T  THEN  I  was  a  little  girl,  Idlewold,  the  estate 
V  V  of  Mrs.  Leonard  Jackson  where  I  first  met 
Breckenridge  Sewall,  was  a  region  of  rough  pasture 
lands.  Thither  we  children  used  to  go  forth  on  Sat- 
urday afternoons  on  marauding  expeditions.  It  was 
covered  in  those  days  with  a  network  of  mysteriously 
winding  cow-paths  leading  from  shadow  into  sun- 
shine, from  dark  groves  through  underbrush  and 
berry-bushes  to  bubbling  brooks.  Many  a  thrilling 
adventure  did  I  pursue  with  my  brothers  through 
those  alluring  paths,  never  knowing  what  treasure  or 
surprise  lay  around  the  next  curve.  Sometimes  it 
would  be  a  cave  appearing  in  the  dense  growth  of 
wild  grape  and  blackberry  vines;  sometimes  a  wood- 
chuck's  hole;  a  snake  sunning  himself;  a  branch  of 
black  thimble-berries;  a  baby  calf  beside  its  mother, 
possibly;  or  perhaps  even  a  wild  rabbit  or  partridge. 
Mrs.  Leonard  Jackson's  elaborate  brick  mansion 
stood  where  more  than  once  bands  of  young  vandals 
were  guilty  of  stealing  an  ear  or  two  of  corn  for 
roasting  purposes,  to  be  blackened  over  a  forbidden 
fire  in  the  corner  of  an  old  stone  wall;  and  her  fa- 

10 


BRECKENRIDGE  SEWALL  11 

mous  wistaria-and-grape  arbor  followed  for  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  the  wandering  path  laid  out  years 
ago  by  cows  on  their  way  to  water.  What  I  dis- 
covered around  one  of  the  curves  of  that  path  the 
day  of  Mrs.  Jackson's  garden  tea  was  as  thrilling 
as  anything  I  had  ever  chanced  upon  as  a  little  girl. 
It  was  Mr.  Breckenridge  Sewall  sitting  on  the  corner 
of  a  rustic  seat  smoking  a  cigarette! 

I  had  seen  Mr.  Sewall  enter  that  arbor  at  the  end 
near  the  house,  a  long  way  off  beyond  lawns  and 
flower  beds.  I  was  standing  at  the  time  with  a  fra- 
grant cup  of  tea  in  my  hand  beside  the  wistaria  arch 
that  forms  the  entrance  of  the  arbor  near  the  orchard. 
I  happened  to  be  alone  for  a  moment.  I  finished  my 
tea  without  haste,  and  then  placing  the  cup  and  saucer 
on  a  cedar  table  near-by,  I  decided  it  would  be  pleas- 
ant to  escape  for  a  little  while  the  chatter  and  con- 
versation of  the  two  or  three  dozen  women  and  a 
handful  of  men.  Unobserved  I  strolled  down  under- 
neath the  grape-vines. 

I  walked  leisurely  along  the  sun-dappled  path, 
stopped  a  moment  to  reach  up  and  pick  a  solitary, 
late  wistaria  blossom,  and  then  went  on  again  smiling 
a  little  to  myself  and  wondering  just  what  my  plan 
was.  I  know  now  that  I  intended  to  waylay  Breck- 
enridge Sewall.  His  attitude  toward  Hilton  had  had 
somewhat  the  same  effect  upon  me  as  the  No  Tres- 
passing and  Keep  Off  signs  when  I  was  younger. 
However,  I  hadn't  gone  very  far  when  I  lost  my 
superb  courage.  A  little  path  branching  off  at  the 


12  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

right  offered  me  an  opportunity  for  escape.  I  took 
it,  and  a  moment  later  fell  to  berating  myself  for 
not  having  been  bolder  and  played  my  game  to  a 
finish.  My  impulses  always  fluctuate  and  flicker  for 
a  moment  or  two  before  they  settle  down  to  a  steady 
resolve. 

I  did  not  think  that  Mr.  Sewall  had  had  time  to 
reach  the  little  path,  or  if  so,  it  did  not  occur  to  me 
that  he  would  select  it.  It  was  grass-grown  and  quite 
indistinct.  So  my  surprise  was  not  feigned  when, 
coming  around  a  curve,  I  saw  him  seated  on  a  rustic 
bench  immediately  in  front  of  me.  It  would  have 
been  awkward  if  I  had  exclaimed,  "Oh!"  and  turned 
around  and  run  away.  Besides,  when  I  saw  Brecken- 
ridge  Sewall  sitting  there  before  me  and  myself  com- 
plete mistress  of  the  situation,  it  appeared  almost  like 
a  duty  to  play  my  cards  as  well  as  I  knew  how.  I 
had  been  brought  up  to  take  advantage  of  opportuni- 
ties, remember. 

I  glanced  at  the  occupied  bench  impersonally,  and 
then  coolly  strolled  on  toward  it  as  if  there  was  no 
one  there.  Mr.  Sewall  got  up  as  I  approached. 

"Don't  rise,"  I  said,  and  then  as  if  I  had  dismissed 
all  thought  of  him,  I  turned  away  and  fell  to  con- 
templating the  panorama  of  stream  and  meadow.  Mr. 
Sewall  could  have  withdrawn  if  he  had  desired.  I 
made  it  easy  for  him  to  pass  unheeded  behind  me 
while  I  was  contemplating  the  view.  However,  he  re- 
mained standing,  looking  at  me. 

"Don't   let  me   disturb   you,"    I   repeated   after   a 


BRECKENRIDGE  SEWALL  13 

moment.  "I've  simply  come  to  see  the  view  of  the 
meadows." 

"Oh,  no  disturbance,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  say,  if 
it's  the  view  you're  keen  on,  take  the  seat." 

"No,  thank  you,"  I  replied. 

"Go  on,  I've  had  enough.    Take  it.  I  don't  want  it." 

"Oh,  no,"  I  repeated.  "It's  very  kind,  but  no,  thank 
you." 

"Why  not?  I've  had  my  fill  of  view.  Upon  my 
word,  I  was  just  going  to  clear  out  anyway." 

"Oh,  were  you?"    That  altered  matters. 

"Sure  thing." 

Then,  "Thank  you,"  I  said,  and  went  over  and  sat 
down. 

Often  under  the  cloak  of  just  such  innocent  and 
ordinary  phrases  is  carried  on  a  private  code  of  rapid 
signs  and  signals  as  easily  understood  by  those  who 
have  been  taught  as  dots  and  dashes  by  a  telegraphic 
operator.  I  couldn't  honestly  say  whether  it  was 
Mr.  Sewall  or  I  who  gave  the  first  signal,  but  at  any 
rate  the  eyes  of  both  of  us  had  said  what  convention 
would  never  allow  to  pass  our  lips.  So  I  wasn't  sur- 
prised, as  perhaps  an  outsider  will  be,  when  Mr.  Se- 
wall didn't  raise  his  hat,  excuse  himself,  and  leave 
me  alone  on  the  rustic  seat,  as  he  should  have  done 
according  to  all  rules  of  good  form  and  etiquette. 
Instead  he  remarked,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  but  haven't 
I  met  you  before  somewhere  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  I  replied  icily,  the  manner 
of  my  glance,  however,  belying  the  tone  of  my  voice. 


14  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"I  don't  recall  you,  that  is.  I'm  not  in  Hilton  long  at 
a  time,  so  I  doubt  it." 

"Oh,  not  in  Hilton!"  He  scoffed  at  the  idea.  "Good 
Lord,  no.  Perhaps  I'm  mistaken  though.  I  sup- 
pose," he  broke  off,  "you've  been  having  tea  up  there 
in  the  garden." 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  confessed,  as  if  even  the  thought 
of  it  bored  me. 

He  came  over  toward  the  bench.  I  knew  it  was 
his  cool  and  audacious  intention  to  sit  down.  So 
I  laid  my  parasol  lengthwise  beside  me,  leaving  the 
extreme  corner  vacant,  by  which  I  meant  to  say,  "I'm 
perfectly  game,  as  you  see,  but  I'm  perfectly  nice 
too,  remember." 

He  smiled  understandingly,  and  sat  down  four  feet 
away  from  me.  He  leaned  back  nonchalantly  and 
proceeded  to  test  my  gameness  by  a  prolonged  and 
undisguised  gaze,  which  he  directed  toward  me 
through  half-closed  lids.  I  showed  no  uneasiness.  I 
kept  right  on  looking  steadily  meadow-ward,  as  if 
green  fields  and  winding  streams  were  much  more 
engrossing  to  me  than  the  presence  of  a  mere  stranger. 
I  enjoyed  the  game  I  was  playing  as  innocently,  upon 
my  word,  as  I  would  any  contest  of  endurance.  And 
it  was  in  the  same  spirit  that  I  took  the  next  dare 
that  was  offered  me. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  it  was  that  Breckenridge 
Sewall  continued  to  gaze  at  me,  how  long  I  sat 
undisturbed  beneath  the  fire  of  his  eyes.  At  any 
rate  it  was  he  who  broke  the  tension  first.  He  leaned 


BRECKENRIDGE  SEWALL  15 

forward  and  drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  gold 
cigarette  case. 

"Do  you  object?"  he  asked. 

"Certainly  not,"  I  replied,  with  a  tiny  shrug.  And 
then  abruptly,  just  as  he  was  to  return  the  case  to  his 
pocket,  he  leaned  forward  again. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — won't  you?"  And  he  offered 
me  the  cigarettes,  his  eyes  narrowed  upon  me. 

It  was  not  the  custom  for  young  girls  of  my  age 
to  smoke  cigarettes.  It  was  not  considered  good  form 
for  a  debutante  to  do  anything  of  that  sort.  I  had  so 
far  refused  all  cocktails  and  wines  at  dinners.  How- 
ever, I  knew  how  to  manage  a  cigarette.  As  a 
lark  at  boarding-school  I  had  consumed  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  of  as  many  as  a  half-dozen  cigarettes.  In 
some  amateur  theatricals  the  winter  before,  in  which 
I  took  the  part  of  a  young  man,  I  had  bravely  smoked 
through  half  of  one,  and  made  my  speeches  too.  What 
this  man  had  said  of  Hilton  and  its  provincialism 
was  in  my  mind  now.  I  meant  no  wickedness,  no 
harm.  I  took  one  of  the  proffered  cigarettes  with  the 
grand  indifference  of  having  done  it  many  times  be- 
fore. Mr.  Sewall  watched  me  closely,  and  when 
he  produced  a  match,  lit  it,  and  stretched  it  out 
toward  me  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  I  leaned  forward 
and  simply  played  over  again  my  well-learned  act  of 
the  winter  before.  Instead  of  the  clapping  of  many 
hands  and  a  curtain-call,  which  had  pleased  me  very 
much  last  winter,  my  applause  today  came  in  a  less 
noisy  way,  but  was  quite  as  satisfying. 


16  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Look  here,"  softly  exclaimed  Breckenridge  Sewall. 
"Say,  who  are  you,  anyway?" 

Of  course  I  wasn't  stupid  enough  to  tell  him,  and 
when  I  saw  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  announcing 
his  identity,  I  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  don't,  please.     I'd  much  rather  not  know." 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  then?" 

"Are  you  Mr.  Jackson?"  I  essayed  innocently. 

"No,  I'm  not  Buck  Jackson,  but  he's  a  pal  of  mine. 
I'm " 

"Oh,  please,"  I  exclaimed  again.    "Don't  spoil  it!'* 

"Spoil  it!"  he  repeated  a  little  dazed.  "Say,  will 
you  talk  English?" 

"I  mean,"  I  explained,  carelessly  tossing  away  now 
into  the  grass  the  nasty  little  thing  that  was  making 
my  throat  smart,  "I  mean,  don't  spoil  my  adventure. 
Life  has  so  few.  To  walk  down  a  little  path  for  the 
purpose  of  looking  at  a  view,  and  instead  to  run 
across  a  stranger  who  may  be  anything  from  a  bandit 
to  an  Italian  Count  is  so — so  romantic." 

"Romantic !"  he  repeated.  He  wasn't  a  bit  good  at 
repartee.  "Who  are  you,  anyway?" 

"Why,  I'm  any  one  from  a  peasant  to  an  heiress." 

"You're  a  darned  attractive  girl,  anyhow!"  he 
ejaculated,  and  as  lacking  in  subtlety  as  this  speech 
was,  I  prized  it  as  sign  of  my  adversary's  surrender. 

Five  minutes  later  Mr.  Sewall  suggested  that  we 
walk  back  together  to  the  people  gathered  on  the 
lawn.  But  I  had  no  intention  of  appearing  in  public 
with  a  celebrated  person  like  Breckenridge  Sewall, 


BRECKENRIDGE  SEWALL  17 

without  having  first  been  properly  introduced.  Be- 
sides, my  over-eager  sister-in-law  would  be  sure  to 
pounce  upon  us.  I  remembered  my  scarf.  I  had  left 
it  by  my  empty  cup  on  the  cedar  table.  It  seemed 
quite  natural  for  me  to  suggest  to  this  stranger  that 
before  rejoining  the  party  I  would  appreciate  my 
wrap.  It  had  grown  a  little  chilly.  He  willingly  went 
to  get  it.  When  he  returned  he  discovered  that  the 
owner  of  the  bit  of  lavender  silk  that  he  carried  in 
his  hand  had  mysteriously  disappeared.  Thick,  close- 
growing  vines  and  bushes  surrounded  the  bench, 
bound  in  on  both  sides  the  shaded  path.  Through  a 
net-work  of  thorns  and  tangled  branches,  somehow 
the  owner  of  that  scarf  had  managed  to  break  her 
way.  The  very  moment  that  Mr.  Sewall  stood  blankly 
surveying  the  empty  bench,  she,  hidden  by  a  row  of 
young  firs,  was  eagerly  skirting  the  west  wall  of  her 
hostess's  estate. 


CHAPTER  III 

EPISODE    OF   A    SMALL   DOG 

DURING  the  following  week  Miss  Vars  often 
caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  Mr.  Sewall  on  his 
way  in  or  out  of  town.  She  heard  that  he  attended 
a  Country  Club  dance  the  following  Saturday  night, 
at  which  she  chanced  not  to  be  present.  She  was 
told  he  had  actually  partaken  of  refreshment  in  the 
dining-room  of  the  Country  Club  and  had  allowed 
himself  to  be  introduced  to  several  of  her  friends. 

It  was  very  assuming  of  this  modest  young  girl, 
was  it  not,  to  imagine  that  Mr.  Sewall's  activities 
had  anything  to  do  with  her?  It  was  rather  au- 
dacious of  her  to  don  a  smart  lavender  linen  suit  one 
afternoon  and  stroll  out  toward  the  Country  Club. 
Her  little  dog  Dandy  might  just  as  well  have  exer- 
cised in  the  opposite  direction,  and  his  mistress 
avoided  certain  dangerous  possibilities.  But  fate  was 
on  her  side.  She  didn't  think  so  at  first  when,  in  the 
course  of  his  constitutional,  Dandy  suddenly  bristled 
and  growled  at  a  terrier  twice  his  weight  and  size, 
and  then  with  a  pull  and  a  dash  fell  to  in  a  mighty  en- 
counter, rolling  over  and  over  in  the  dirt  and  dust. 
Afterward,  with  the  yelping  terrier  disappearing  down 

18 


EPISODE  OF  A  SMALL  DOG          19 

the  road,  Dandy  held  up  a  bleeding  paw  to  his  mis- 
tress. She  didn't  have  the  heart  to  scold  the  triumph- 
ant little  warrior.  Besides  he  was  sadly  injured.  She 
tied  her  handkerchief  about  the  paw,  gathered  the  dog 
up  in  her  arms,  turned  her  back  on  the  Country  Club 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  further  on,  and  started  home.  It 
was  just  then  that  a  gray,  low,  deep-purring  automo- 
bile appeared  out  of  a  cloud  of  dust  in  the  distance.  As 
it  approached  it  slowed  down  and  came  to  a  full  stop 
three  feet  in  front  of  her.  She  looked  up.  The  oc- 
cupant of  the  car  was  smiling  broadly. 

"Well!"  he  ejaculated.  "At  last!  Where  did  you 
drop  from?" 

"How  do  you  do,"  she  replied  loftily. 

"Where  did  you  drop  from?"  he  repeated.  "I've 
been  hanging  around  for  a  week,  looking  for  you." 

"For  me?"    She  was  surprised.    "Why,  what  for?" 

"Say,"  he  broke  out.  "That  was  a  mean  trick  you 
played.  I  was  mad  clean  through  at  first.  What  did 
you  run  off  that  way  for?  What  was  the  game?" 

"Previous  engagement,"  she  replied  primly. 

"Previous  engagement!  Well,  you  haven't  any 
previous  engagement  now,  have  you?  Because,  if 
you  have,  get  in,  and  I'll  waft  you  to  it." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  think  of  it !"  she  said.  He  opened 
the  door  to  the  car  and  sprang  out  beside  her. 

"Come,  get  in,"  he  urged.  "I'll  take  you  anywhere 
you're  going.  I'd  be  delighted." 

"Why,"   she  exclaimed,   "we  haven't  been  intro- 


20  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

duced.  How  do  I  know  who  you  are?"  She  was  a 
well  brought-up  young  person,  you  see. 

"I'll  tell  you  who  I  am  fast  enough.  Glad  to.  Get 
in,  and  we  will  run  up  to  the  Club  and  get  intro- 
duced, if  that's  what  you  want." 

"Oh,  it  isn't!"  she  assured  him.  "I  just  prefer  to 
walk — that's  all.  Thank  you  very  much." 

"Well,  walk  then.  But  you  don't  give  me  the  slip 
this  time,  young  lady.  Savvy  that?  Walk,  and  I'll 
come  along  behind  on  low  speed." 

She  contemplated  the  situation  for  a  moment,  look- 
ing away  across  fields  and  green  pastures.  Then  she 
glanced  down  at  Dandy.  Her  name  in  full  appeared 
staring  at  her  from  the  nickel  plate  of  the  dog's  collar. 
She  smiled. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  can  do,"  she  said  brightly. 
"I'd  be  so  grateful!  My  little  dog  has  had  an  acci- 
dent, you  see,  and  if  you  would  be  so  kind — I  hate 
to  ask  so  much  of  a  stranger — it  seems  a  great  deal — 
but  if  you  would  leave  him  at  the  veterinary's,  Dr. 
Jenkins,  just  behind  the  Court  House !  He's  so  heavy! 
I'd  be  awfully  grateful." 

"No,  you  don't,"  replied  Mr.  Sewall.  "No  more 
of  those  scarf  games  on  me!  Sorry.  But  I'm  not 
so  easy  as  all  that!" 

The  girl  shifted  her  dog  to  her  other  arm. 

"He  weighs  fifteen  pounds,"  she  remarked.  And 
then  abruptly  for  no  apparent  reason  Mr.  Sewall  in- 
quired : 

"Is  it  yours  ?    Your  own  ?    The  dog,  I  mean  ?" 


EPISODE  OF  A  SMALL  DOG          21 

"My  own?"  she  repeated.  "Why  do  you  ask?" 
Innocence  was  stamped  upon  her.  For  nothing  in 
the  world  would  she  have  glanced  down  upon  the 
collar. 

"Oh,  nothing — nice  little  rat,  that's  all.  And  I'm 
game.  Stuff  him  in,  if  you  want.  I'll  deliver  him 
to  your  vet." 

"You  will?  Really?  Why,  how  kind  you  are!  I 
do  appreciate  it.  You  mean  it?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  Stuff  him  in.  Delighted  to  be 
of  any  little  service.  Come  on,  Towzer.  Make  it 
clear  to  your  little  pet,  pray,  before  starting  that  I'm 
no  abductor.  Good-by — and  say,"  he  added,  as  the 
car  began  to  purr,  "Say,  please  remember  you  aren't 
the  only  clever  little  guy  in  the  world,  Miss  Who- 
ever-you-are !" 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"    She  looked  abused. 

"That's  all  right.  Good-by."  And  off  he  sped 
down  the  road. 

Miss  "Who-ever-you-are"  walked  the  three  miles 
home  slowly,  smiling  almost  all  the  way.  When  she 
arrived,  there  was  a  huge  box  of  flowers  waiting  on 
the  hall-table  directed  to : 

"Miss  Ruth  Chenery  Vars 
The  Homestead,   Hilton,   Mass. 
License  No.  668." 

Inside  were  two  dozen  American  Beauty  roses.    Tied 
to  the  stem  of  one  was  an  envelope,  and  inside  the 


22  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

envelope  was  a  card  which  bore  the  name  of  Brecken- 
ridge  Sewall. 

"So  that's  who  he  is !"  Miss  Vars  said  out  loud. 

I  saw  a  great  deal  of  the  young  millionaire  during 
the  remainder  of  the  summer.  Hardly  a  day  passed 
but  that  I  heard  the  approaching  purr  of  his  car.  And 
never  a  week  but  that  flowers  and  candy,  and  more 
flowers  and  candy,  filled  the  rejoicing  Homestead. 

I  was  a  canny  young  person.  I  allowed  Mr.  Sewall 
very  little  of  my  time  in  private.  I  refused  to  go  off 
alone  with  him  anywhere,  and  the  result  was  that 
he  was  forced  to  attend  teas  and  social  functions  if 
he  wanted  to  indulge  in  his  latest  fancy.  The  af- 
fair, carried  on  as  it  was  before  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
community,  soon  became  the  main  topic  of  conversa- 
tion. I  felt  myself  being  pointed  out  everywhere  I 
went  as  the  girl  distinguished  by  the  young  millionaire, 
Breckenridge  Sewall.  My  friends  regarded  me  with 
wonder. 

Before  a  month  had  passed  a  paragraph  appeared 
in  a  certain  periodical  in  regard  to  the  exciting  affair. 
I  burst  into  flattering  notoriety.  What  had  before 
been  slow  and  difficult  sailing  for  Edith  and  me  now 
became  as  swift  and  easy  as  if  we  had  added  an 
auxiliary  engine  to  our  little  boat.  We  found  our- 
selves receiving  invitations  from  hostesses  who  be- 
fore had  been  impregnable.  Extended  hands  greeted 
us — kindness,  cordiality. 

Finally  the  proud  day  arrived  when  I  was  invited 


EPISODE  OF  A  SMALL  DOG          23 

to  Grassmere  as  a  guest.  One  afternoon  Breck  came 
rushing  in  upon  me  and  eagerly  explained  that  his 
mother  sent  her  apologies,  and  would  I  be  good 
enough  to  fill  in  a  vacancy  at  a  week-end  house- 
party.  Of  course  I  would!  Proudly  I  rode  away 
beside  Breck  in  his  automobile,  out  of  the  gates  of 
the  Homestead  along  the  state  road  a  mile  or  two,  and 
swiftly  swerved  inside  the  fifty  thousand  dollar 
wrought-iron  fence  around  the  cherished  grounds  of 
Grassmere.  My  trunks  followed,  and  Edith's  hopes 
followed  too! 

It  was  an  exciting  three  days.  I  had  never  spent 
a  night  in  quite  such  splendid  surroundings;  I  had 
never  mingled  with  quite  such  smart  and  fashionable 
people.  It  was  like  a  play  to  me.  I  hoped  I  would 
not  forget  my  lines,  fail  to  observe  cues,  or  perform 
the  necessary  business  awkwardly.  I  wanted  to  do 
credit  to  my  host.  And  I  believe  I  did.  Within  two 
hours  I  felt  at  ease  in  the  grand  and  luxurious  house. 
The  men  were  older,  the  women  more  experienced, 
but  I  wasn't  uncomfortable.  As  I  wandered  through 
the  beautiful  rooms,  conversed  with  what  to  me  stood 
for  American  aristocracy,  basked  in  the  hourly  atten- 
tion of  butlers  and  French  maids,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  I  was  peculiarly  fitted  for  such  a  life  as  this.  It 
became  me.  It  didn't  seem  as  if  I  could  be  the  little 
girl  who  not  so  very  long  ago  lived  in  the  old  French- 
roofed  house  with  the  cracked  walls,  stained  ceilings 
and  worn  Brussels  carpets,  at  240  Main  Street,  Hil- 
ton, Mass.  But  the  day  Breck  asked  me  to  marry  him 


24  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

I  discovered  I  was  that  girl,  with  the  same  untainted 
ideal  of  marriage,  too,  hidden  away  safe  and  sound 
under  my  play-acting. 

"Why,  Breck !"  I  exclaimed.  "Don't  be  absurd.  I 
wouldn't  marry  you  for  anything  in  the  world." 

And  I  wouldn't!  My  marriage  was  dim  and  in- 
distinct to  me  then.  I  had  placed  it  in  a  very  far- 
away future.  My  ideal  of  love  was  such,  that  beside 
it  all  my  friends'  love  affairs  and  many  of  those  in 
fiction  seemed  commonplace  and  mediocre.  I  prized 
highly  the  distinction  of  Breckenridge  Sewall's  atten- 
tions, but  marry  him — of  course  I  wouldn't ! 

Breck's  attentions  continued  spasmodically  for  over 
two  years.  It  took  some  skill  to  be  seen  with  him 
frequently,  to  accept  just  the  right  portion  of  his 
tokens  of  regard,  to  keep  him  interested,  and  yet  re- 
main absolutely  free  and  uninvolved.  I  couldn't  man- 
age it  indefinitely;  the  time  would  come  when  all  the 
finesse  in  the  world  would  avail  nothing.  And  come 
it  did  in  the  middle  of  the  third  summer. 

Breck  refused  to  be  cool  and  temperate  that  third 
summer.  He  insisted  on  all  sorts  of  extravagances. 
He  allowed  me  to  monopolize  him  to  the  exclusion 
of  every  one  else.  He  wouldn't  be  civil  even  to  his 
mother's  guests  at  Grassmere.  He  deserted  them  night 
after  night  for  Edith's  sunken  garden,  and  me,  though 
I  begged  him  to  be  reasonable,  urging  him  to  stay 
away.  I  didn't  blame  his  mother,  midsummer  though 
it  was,  for  closing  Grassmere,  barring  the  windows, 
locking  the  gates  and  abruptly  packing  off  with  her 


EPISODE  OF  A  SMALL  DOG          2y 

son  to  an  old  English  estate  of  theirs  near  London. 
I  only  hoped  Mrs.  Sewall  didn't  think  me  heartless. 
I  had  always  been  perfectly  honest  with  Breck.  I 
had  always,  from  the  first,  said  I  couldn't  marry  him. 

Not  until  I  was  convinced  that  the  end  must  come 
between  Breck  and  me,  did  I  tell  the  family  that  he 
had  ever  proposed  marriage.  There  exists,  I  believe, 
some  sort  of  unwritten  law  that  once  a  man  proposes 
and  a  girl  refuses,  attentions  should  cease.  I  came  in 
on  Sunday  afternoon  from  an  automobile  ride  with 
Breck  just  before  he  sailed  for  England  and  dra- 
matically announced  his  proposal  to  the  family — 
just  as  if  he  hadn't  been  urging  the  same  thing  ever 
since  I  knew  him. 

I  expected  Edith  would  be  displeased  when  she 
learned  that  I  wasn't  going  to  marry  Breck,  so  I 
didn't  tell  her  my  decision  immediately.  I  dreaded 
to  undertake  to  explain  to  her  what  a  slaughter  to 
my  ideals  such  a  marriage  would  be.  Oh,  I  was 
young  then,  you  see,  young  and  hopeful.  Everything 
was  ahead  of  me.  There  was  a  splendid  chance  for 
happiness. 

"I  can't  marry  Breck  Sewall,  Edith,"  I  attempted; 
at  last.  "I  can't  marry  any  one — yet." 

"And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  yourself?''' 
she  inquired  in  that  cold,  unsympathetic  way  she  as- 
sumes when  she  is  angry. 

"I  don't  know,  yet.  There's  a  chance  for  all  sorts 
of  good  things  to  come  true,"  I  replied  lightly. 


26  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"You've  been  out  three  years,  you  know,"  she  re- 
minded me  icily. 

The  Sewalls  occupied  their  English  estate  for  sev- 
eral seasons.  Grassmere  remained  closed  and  barred. 
I  did  not  see  my  young  millionaire  again  until  I  was 
an  older  girl,  and  my  ideals  had  undergone  extensive 
alterations. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   BACK-SEASON    DEBUTANTE 

DEBUTANTES  are  a  good  deal  like  first  novels- 
advertised  and  introduced  at  a  great  expendi- 
ture of  money  and  effort,  and  presented  to  the  pub- 
lic with  fear  and  trembling.  But  the  greatest  like- 
ness comes  later.  The  best-sellers  of  one  spring  must 
be  put  up  on  the  high  shelves  to  make  room  for  new 
merchandise  the  next.  At  the  end  of  several  years 
the  once  besought  and  discussed  book  can  be  found 
by  the  dozens  on  bargain  counters  in  department 
stores,  marked  down  to  fifty  cents  a  copy. 

The  first  best-seller  I  happened  to  observe  in  this 
ignominious  position  was  a  novel  that  came  out  the 
same  fall  that  I  did.  It  was  six  years  old  to  the  world, 
and  so  was  I.  I  stopped  a  moment  at  the  counter  and 
opened  the  book.  It  had  been  strikingly  popular, 
with  scores  of  reviews  and  press  notices,  and  hun- 
dreds of  admirers.  It  had  made  a  pretty  little  pile 
of  money  for  its  exploiters.  Perhaps,  too,  it  had  won 
a  few  friends.  But  its  day  of  intoxicating  popularity 
had  passed.  And  so  had  mine.  And  so  must  every 
debutante's.  By  the  fourth  or  fifth  season,  cards  for 
occasional  luncheons  and  invitations  to  fill  in  vacan- 

27 


28  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

cies  at  married  people's  dinner  parties  must  take  the 
place  of  those  feverish  all-night  balls,  preceded  by  bril- 
liantly lighted  tables-full  of  debutantes,  as  excited 
as  yourself,  with  a  lot  of  gay  young  lords  for  part- 
ners and  all  the  older  people  looking  on,  admiring 
and  taking  mental  notes.  Such  excitement  was  all 
over  with  me  by  the  time  I  was  twenty-two.  I  had 
been  a  success,  too,  I  suppose.  Any  girl  whom  Breck- 
enridge  Sewall  had  launched  couldn't  help  being  a 
success. 

During  the  two  or  three  years  that  Breck  was  in 
Europe  I  passed  through  the  usual  routine  of  back- 
season  debutantes.  They  always  resort  to  travel 
sooner  or  later ;  visit  boarding-school  friends  one  win- 
ter; California,  Bermuda  or  Europe  the  next;  eagerly 
patronize  winter  resorts;  and  fill  in  various  spaces 
acting  as  bridesmaids.  When  they  have  the  chance 
they  take  part  in  pageants  and  amateur  theatricals, 
periodically  devote  themselves  to  some  fashionable 
charity  or  other,  read  novels,  and  attend  current  event 
courses  if  very  desperate. 

I  used  to  think  when  I  was  fifteen  that  I  should 
like  to  be  an  author,  more  specifically,  a  poet.  I  used 
to  write  verses  that  were  often  read  out  loud  in  my 
English  course  at  the  Hilton  High  School.  And  I 
designed  book  plates,  too,  and  modeled  a  little  in 
clay.  The  more  important  business  of  establishing 
ourselves  socially  interrupted  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
however.  But  I  often  wish  I  might  have  specialized 
in  some  line  of  art.  Perhaps  now  when  I  have  so 


A  BACK-SEASON  DEBUTANTE         29 

much  time  on  my  hands  it  would  prove  my  staunchest 
friend.  For  a  girl  who  has  no  established  income  it 
might  result  in  an  enjoyable  means  of  support. 

I  have  an  established  income,  you  see.  Father 
kindly  left  me  a  little  stock  in  some  mines  out  West, 
stock  or  bonds — I'm  not  very  clear  on  business  terms. 
Anyhow  I  have  an  income  of  about  eight  hundred  dol- 
lars a  year,  paid  over  to  me  by  my  brother  Tom,  who 
has  my  affairs  in  charge.  It  isn't  sufficient  for  me  to 
live  on  at  present,  of  course.  What  with  the  travel- 
ing, clothes — one  thing  and  another — Edith  has  had 
to  help  out  with  generous  Christmas  and  birthday 
gifts.  This  she  does  lavishly.  She's  enormously  rich 
herself,  and  very  generous.  My  last  Christmas  pres- 
ent from  her  was  a  set  of  furs  and  a  luxurious  coon- 
skin  motor  coat.  Perhaps  I  wouldn't  feel  quite  so 
hopeless  if  my  father  and  mother  were  living,  and 
I  felt  that  my  idleness  in  some  way  was  making  them 
happy.  But  I  haven't  such  an  excuse.  I  am  not  nec- 
essary to  the  happiness  of  any  household.  I  am  what 
is  known  as  a  fifth  wheel — a  useless  piece  of  para- 
phernalia carried  along  as  necessary  impedimenta  on 
other  people's  journeys. 

There  are  lots  of  fifth  wheels  in  the  world.  Some 
are  old  and  rusty  and  out  of  repair,  and  down  in 
their  inmost  hubs  they  long  to  roll  off  into  the  gutter 
and  lie  there  quiet  and  undisturbed.  These  are  the 
old  people — silver-haired,  self-effacing — who  go  up- 
stairs to  bed  early  when  guests  are  invited  for  din- 
ner. Some  are  emergency  fifth  wheels,  such  as  are 


30  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

carried  on  automobiles,  always  ready  to  take  their 
place  on  the  road,  if  one  of  the  regular  wheels  breaks 
down  and  needs  to  be  sent  away  for  repairs.  These 
are  the  middle-aged,  unmarried  aunts  and  cousins — 
staunch,  reliable — who  are  sent  for  to  take  care  of 
the  children  while  mother  runs  over  to  Europe  for 
a  holiday.  And  some  are  fifth  wheels  like  myself — 
neither  old  nor  self-effacing,  neither  middle-aged  nor 
useful,  but  simply  expensive  to  keep  painted,  and  very 
hungry  for  the  road.  It  may  be  only  a  matter  of 
time,  however,  when  I  shall  be  middle-aged  and  use- 
ful, and  later  old  and  self-effacing;  when  I  shall  stay 
and  take  care  of  the  children,  and  go  upstairs  early 
when  the  young  people  are  having  a  party. 

A  young  technical  college  graduate  told  me  once, 
to  comfort  me,  I  suppose,  that  a  fifth  wheel  is  con- 
sidered by  a  carriage-maker  a  very  important  part  of 
a  wagon.  He  tried  to  explain  to  me  just  what  part 
of  a  wagon  it  was.  You  can't  see  it.  It's  under- 
neath somewhere,  and  has  to  be  kept  well  oiled.  I 
am  not  very  mechanical,  but  it  sounded  ignominious 
to  me.  I  told  that  young  man  that  I  wanted  to  be 
one  of  the  four  wheels  that  held  the  coach  up  and 
made  it  speed,  not  tucked  out  of  sight,  smothered  in 
carriage-grease. 

It  came  as  a  shock  to  me  when  I  first  realized  my 
superfluous  position  in  this  world.  The  result  of 
that  shock  was  what  led  me  to  abandon  my  ideals 
on  love  in  an  attempt  to  avoid  the  possibility  of  go- 
ing upstairs  early  and  having  dinners  off  a  tray. 


A  BACK-SEASON  DEBUTANTE         31 

When  my  brother  Alec  married  Edith  Campbell, 
and  Edith  came  over  to  our  house  and  remodeled  it, 
I  didn't  feel  supplanted.  There  was  a  room  built 
especially  for  me  with  a  little  bathroom  of  its  own, 
a  big  closet,  a  window-box  filled  with  flowers  in  the 
summer,  and  cretonne  hangings  that  I  picked  out 
myself.  My  sister  Lucy  had  a  room  too — for  she 
wasn't  married  then — and  the  entire  attic  was  fin- 
ished up  as  barracks  for  my  brothers,  the  twins,  who 
were  in  college  at  the  time.  They  were  invited  to 
bring  home  all  the  friends  they  wanted  to.  Edith 
was  a  big-hearted  sister-in-law.  To  me  her  coming 
was  like  the  advent  of  a  fairy  godmother.  I  had 
chafed  terribly  under  the  economies  of  my  earlier 
years.  It  wasn't  until  Alec  married  Edith  that  for- 
tune began  to  smile. 

One  by  one  the  family  left  the  Homestead — Lucy, 
when  she  married  Dr.  William  Maynard  and  went 
away  to  live  near  the  university  with  which  Will 
was  connected,  and  Oliver  and  Malcolm  when  they 
graduated  from  college  and  went  into  business.  I 
alone  was  left  living  with  Alec  and  Edith.  I  was 
so  busy  coming-out  and  making  a  social  success  of 
myself  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  but  that  I  was 
as  important  a  member  in  that  household  as  Edith 
herself.  I  wasn't  far  from  wrong  either.  When  I 
was  a  debutante  and  admired  by  Breckenridge  Sewall, 
I  was  petted  and  pampered  and  kept  in  sight.  When 
I  became  a  back-season  number  of  some  four  or  five 
years'  staleness,  any  old  north  room  would  do  for  me ! 


32  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

I  used  to  dread  Hilton  in  the  winter,  with  noth- 
ing more  exciting  going  on  than  a  few  horrible  thim- 
ble parties  with  girls  who  were  beginning  to  discuss 
how  to  keep  thin,  the  importance  of  custom-made 
corsets,  and  various  other  topics  of  advancing  years. 
I  soon  acquired  the  habit  of  interrupting  these  long 
seasons.  I  was  frequently  absent  two  months  at  a 
time,  visiting  boarding-school  friends,  running  out 
to  California,  up  to  Alaska,  or  down  to  Mexico  with 
some  girl  friend  or  other,  with  her  mother  or  aunt  for 
a  chaperon.  Traveling  is  pleasant  enough,  but  every- 
body likes  to  feel  a  tie  pulling  gently  at  his  heart- 
strings when  he  steps  up  to  a  hotel  register  to  write 
down  the  name  of  that  little  haven  that  means  home. 
It  is  like  one  of  those  toy  return-balls.  If  the  ball  is 
attached  by  an  elastic  string  to  some  little  girl's  mid- 
dle finger  how  joyfully  it  springs  forth  from  her 
hand,  how  eagerly  returns  again!  When  suddenly 
on  one  of  its  trips  the  elastic  snaps,  the  ball  becomes 
lifeless  and  rolls  listlessly  away  in  the  gutter.  When 
my  home  ties  broke,  I,  too,  abandoned  myself. 

I  had  been  on  a  visiting-trip  made  up  of  two-week 
stands  in  various  cities  between  Massachusetts  and  the 
Great  Lakes,  whither  I  had  set  out  to  visit  my  oldest 
brother,  Tom,  and  his  wife,  Elise,  who  live  on  the 
edge  of  one  of  the  Lakes  in  Wisconsin.  I  had  been 
gone  about  six  weeks  and  had  planned  not  to  return 
to  Hilton  until  the  arrival  of  Hilton's  real  society 
in  May. 

When  I  reached  Henrietta  Morgan's,  just  outside 


A  BACK-SEASON  DEBUTANTE         33 

New  York,  on  the  return  trip,  I  fully  expected  to 
remain  with  her  for  two  weeks  and  stop  off  another 
week  with  the  Harts  in  New  Haven.  But  after  about 
three  days  at  Henrietta's,  I  suddenly  decided  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer.  My  clothes  all  needed  pressing — 
they  had  a  peculiar  trunky  odor — even  the  tissue  paper 
which  I  used  in  such  abundance  in  my  old-fashioned 
tray  trunk  had  lost  its  life  and  crispness;  I  had  gotten 
down  to  my  last  clean  pair  of  long  white  gloves; 
everything  I  owned  needed  some  sort  of  attention — 
I  simply  must  go  home! 

I  woke  up  possessed  with  the  idea,  and  after  put- 
ting on  my  last  really  respectable  waist  and  inquir- 
ing of  myself  in  the  mirror  how  in  the  world  I  ex- 
pected to  visit  Henrietta  Morgan  with  such  a  dreary 
trunkful  of  travel-worn  articles,  anyhow,  I  went  down 
to  the  breakfast  table  with  my  mind  made  up. 

Henrietta  left  me  after  breakfast  for  a  hurried 
trip  to  town.  I  didn't  go  with  her.  I  had  waked  up 
with  a  kind  of  cottony  feeling  in  my  throat,  and  as 
hot  coffee  and  toast  didn't  seem  to  help  it,  I  made 
an  examination  with  a  hand-mirror  after  breakfast. 
I  discovered  three  white  spots!  I  wasn't  alarmed. 
They  never  mean  anything  serious  with  me,  and  they 
offered  an  excellent  excuse  for  my  sudden  departure. 
It  didn't  come  to  my  mind  that  the  white  spots  might 
have  been  the  cause  of  my  sudden  longing  for  my 
own  little  pink  room.  I  simply  knew  I  wanted  to 
go  home;  and  wake  up  in  the  morning  cross  and  dis- 


34  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

agreeable;  and  grumble  about  the  bacon  and  coffee 
at  the  breakfast  table  if  I  wanted  to. 

While  Henrietta  and  her  mother  were  out  in  the 
morning,  I  clinched  my  decision  by  engaging  a  sec- 
tion on  the  night  train  and  telegraphing  Edith.  Al- 
though I  was  convinced  that  my  departure  wouldn't 
seriously  upset  any  of  the  small  informal  affairs  so 
far  planned  for  my  entertainment,  I  was  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Morgan's  tenacious  form  of  hospitality. 
By  the  time  she  returned  my  packing  was  finished,  and 
I  was  lying  down  underneath  a  down  comforter  on 
the  couch.  I  told  Mrs.  Morgan  about  the  white  spots 
and  my  decision  to  return  home. 

She  would  scarcely  hear  me  through.  She  an- 
nounced emphatically  that  she  wouldn't  think  of  al- 
lowing me  to  travel  if  I  was  ill.  I  was  to  undress 
immediately,  crawl  in  between  the  sheets,  and  she 
would  call  a  doctor.  I  wasn't  rude  to  Mrs.  Morgan, 
simply  firm — that  was  all — quite  as  persistent  in  my 
resolve  as  she  in  hers. 

When  finally  she  became  convinced  that  nothing 
under  heaven  could  dissuade  me,  she  flushed  slightly 
and  said  icily,  "Oh,  very  well,  very  well.  If  that  is 
the  way  you  feel  about  it,  very  well,  my  dear,"  and 
sailed  out  of  the  room,  hurt.  Even  Henrietta,  though 
very  solicitous,  shared  her  mother's  indignation,  and 
I  longed  for  the  comfort  and  relief  of  the  Pullman, 
the  friendly  porters,  and  my  own  understanding  people 
at  the  other  end. 

So,  you  see,  when  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 


A  BACK-SEASON  DEBUTANTE         35 

I  was  summoned  to  the  telephone  to  receive  a  tele- 
gram from  Hilton,  I  wasn't  prepared  for  the  slap 
in  the  face  that  Edith's  message  was  to  me. 

"Sorry,"  it  was  repeated.  "Can't  conveniently  have 
you  until  next  week.  House  packed  with  company. 
Better  stay  with  the  Morgans."  Signed,  "Edith." 


CHAPTER   V 

THE   UNIMPORTANT   FIFTH    WHEEL 

BETTER  stay  with  the  Morgans!  Who  was  I 
to  be  bandied  about  in  such  fashion?  Couldn't 
have  me!  I  wasn't  a  seamstress  who  went  out  by 
the  day.  House  packed  with  company!  Well — 
what  of  that?  Hadn't  I  more  right  there?  Wasn't 
I  Alec's  own  sister?  Wasn't  I  born  under  the  very 
roof  to  which  I  was  now  asked  not  to  come  ?  Weren't 
all  my  things  there — my  bed,  my  bureau,  my  little 
old  white  enameled  desk  I  used  when  I  was  a  child? 
Where  was  I  to  go,  I'd  like  to  ask?  Couldn't  have 
me !  Very  well,  then,  I  wouldn't  go ! 

I  called  up  my  brother  Malcolm's  office  in  New 
York.  Perhaps  he  would  be  kind  enough  to  engage 
a  room  in  a  hospital  somewhere,  or  at  least  find  a 
bed  in  a  public  ward.  "Sorry,  Miss  Vars,"  came  the 
answer  finally  to  me  over  the  long  distance  wire,  "but 
Mr.  Vars  has  gone  up  to  Hilton,  Massachusetts,  for 
the  week-end.  Not  returning  until  Monday." 

I  sat  dumbly  gazing  into  the  receiver.  \Vhere  could 
I  go?  Lucy,  I  was  sure,  would  squeeze  me  in  some- 
where if  I  applied  to  her — she  always  can — but  a  let- 
ter received  from  Lucy  two  days  before  had  con- 

36 


THE  UNIMPORTANT  FIFTH  WHEEL     37 

tained  a  glowing  description  of  some  celebrated  doctor 
of  science  and  his  wife,  who  were  to  be  her  guests 
during  this  very  week.  She  has  but  one  guest  room. 
I  couldn't  turn  around  and  go  back  to  Wisconsin. 
I  couldn't  go  to  Oliver,  now  married  to  Madge.  They 
live  in  a  tiny  apartment  outside  Boston.  There  is 
nothing  for  me  to  sleep  on  except  a  lumpy  couch  in 
the  living-room.  Besides  there  is  a  baby,  and  to 
carry  germs  into  any  household  with  a  baby  in  it  is 
nothing  less  than  criminal. 

Never  before  had  I  felt  so  ignominious  as  when, 
half  an  hour  later,  I  meekly  passed  my  telegram  to 
Mrs.  Morgan  and  asked  if  it  would  be  terribly  incon- 
venient if  I  did  stay  after  all. 

"Not  at  all.  Of  course  not,"  she  replied  coldly. 
"I  shall  not  turn  you  out  into  the  street,  my  dear. 
But  you  stated  your  wish  to  go  so  decidedly  that  I 
have  telephoned  Henrietta's  friends  in  Orange  to  come 
over  to  take  your  place.  We  had  not  told  you  that 
tickets  for  the  theater  tonight  and  matinee  tomorrow 
had  already  been  bought.  The  friends  are  coming 
this  evening.  So  I  shall  be  obliged  to  ask  you  to 
move  your  things  into  the  sewing-room." 

I  moved  them.  A  mean  little  room  it  was  on  the 
north  side  of  the  house.  Piles  of  clothes  to  be  mended, 
laundry  to  be  put  away,  a  mop  and  a  carpet  sweeper 
greeted  me  as  I  went  in.  The  floor  was  untidy  with 
scraps  of  cloth  pushed  into  a  corner  behind  the  sewing 
machine.  The  mantel  was  decorated  with  spools  of 
thread,  cards  of  hooks  and  eyes,  and  a  pin-cushion 


38  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

with  threaded  needles  stuck  in  it.  The  bed  was  un- 
comfortable. I  crawled  into  it,  and  lay  very  still.  My 
heart  was  filled  with  bitterness.  My  eyes  rested  on 
the  skeleton  of  a  dressmaker's  form.  A  man's  shirt 
ripped  up  the  back  hung  over  a  chair.  I  staid  for 
three  days  in  that  room!  Mrs.  Morgan's  family 
physician  called  the  first  night,  and  announced  to  Mrs. 
Morgan  that  probably  I  was  coming  down  with  a 
slight  attack  of  tonsilitis.  I  thought  at  least  it  was 
diphtheria  or  double  pneumonia.  There  were  pains 
in  my  back.  When  I  tried  to  look  at  the  dressmaker's 
skeleton  it  jiggled  uncomfortably  before  my  eyes. 

I  didn't  see  the  new  guests  once.  Even  Henrietta 
was  allowed  to  speak  to  me  only  from  across  the 
hall. 

"Tonsilitis  is  catching,  you  know,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Morgan  sweetly  purred  from  heights  above  me,  "and 
I'd  never  forgive  myself  if  the  other  two  girls  caught 
anything  here.  I've  forbidden  Henrietta  to  see  you. 
She's  so  susceptible  to  germs."  I  felt  I  was  an  unholy 
creature,  teeming  with  microbes. 

The  room  was  warm;  they  fed  me;  they  cared  for 
me;  but  I  begged  the  doctor  for  an  early  deliverance 
on  Monday  morning.  I  longed  for  home.  I  cried 
for  it  a  little.  Edith  couldn't  have  known  that  I  was 
ill;  she  would  have  opened  her  arms  wide  if  she  had 
guessed — of  course  she  would.  I  ought  to  have  gone 
in  the  beginning.  I  poured  out  my  story  into  that 
old  doctor's  understanding  ears,  and  he  opened  the 
way  for  me  finally.  He  let  me  escape.  Very  weak 


THE  UNIMPORTANT  FIFTH  WHEEL     39 

and  wobbly  I  took  an  early  train  on  Monday  morning 
for  Hilton.  At  the  same  time  I  sent  the  following 
telegram  to  my  sister-in-law:  "Arrive  Hilton  6:15 
tonight.  Have  been  ill.  Still  some  fever,  but  doctor 
finally  consents  to  let  me  come." 

Six  fearful  hours  later  I  found  myself,  weak-kneed 
and  trembling,  on  the  old  home  station  platform.  I 
was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  I  looked  up  and  down  for 
Edith's  anxious  face,  or  for  Alec's — they  would  be 
disturbed  when  they  heard  I  had  a  fever,  they  might 
be  alarmed — but  I  couldn't  find  them.  The  motor 
was  not  at  the  curb  either.  I  stepped  into  a  telephone- 
booth  and  called  the  house.  Edith  answered  herself. 
I  recognized  her  quick  staccato  "Hello." 

I  replied,  "Hello,  that  you,  Edith?" 

"Yes.    Who  is  this?"  she  called. 

"Ruth,"  I  answered  feebly. 

"Ruth!  Where  in  the  world  are  you?"  she  an- 
swered. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right.  I'm  down  here  at  the  station. 
Just  arrived.  I'm  perfectly  all  right,"  I  assured  her. 

"Well,  well,"  she  exclaimed.  "That's  fine.  Aw- 
fully glad  you're  back!  I  do  wish  I  could  send  the 
limousine  down  for  you,  Ruth.  But  I  just  can't. 
We're  going  out  to  dinner — to  the  Mortimers,  and 
we've  just  got  to  have  it.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  do 
you  mind  taking  the  car,  or  a  carriage?  I'm  right 
in  the  midst  of  dressing.  I've  got  to  hurry  like  mad. 
It's  almost  half-past  six  now.  Jump  into  a  taxi,  and 
we  can  have  a  nice  little  chat  before  I  have  to  so.  Got 


40  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

lots  to  tell  you.  It's  fine  you're  back.  Good-by. 
Don't  mind  if  I  hurry  now,  do  you  ?" 

I  arrived  at  the  house  ten  minutes  later  in  a  hired 
taxicab.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  after  a  long  wait  a 
maid  I  had  never  seen  before  let  me  in.  Edith  re- 
splendent in  a  brand  new  bright  green  satin  gown 
was  just  coming  down  the  stairs.  She  had  on  all 
her  diamonds. 

"Hello,  Toots,"  she  said.  "Did  you  get  homesick, 
dearie?  Welcome.  Wish  I  could  kiss  you,  Honey, 
but  I  can't.  I've  just  finished  my  lips.  Why  didn't 
you  telegraph,  Rascal?  It's  a  shame  not  to  have  you 
met" 

"I  did,"  I  began. 

"Oh,  well,  our  telephone  has  been  out  of  order  all 
day.  It  makes  me  tired  the  way  they  persist  in  tele- 
phoning telegrams.  We  do  get  the  worst  service!  I 
had  no  idea  you  were  coming.  Why,  I  sent  off  a 
perfect  bunch  of  mail  to  you  this  very  morning.  You 
weren't  peeved,  were  you.  Toots,  about  my  telegram, 
I  mean  ?  I  was  right  in  the  midst  of  the  most  impor- 
tant house-party  I've  ever  had.  As  it  was  I  had  too 
many  girls,  and  at  the  last  minute  had  to  telegraph 
Malcolm  to  come  and  help  me  out.  And  he  did,  the 
lamb !  The  house-party  was  a  screaming  success.  I'm 
going  to  have  a  regular  series  of  them  all  summer. 
How  do  you  like  my  gown?  Eighty-five,  my  dear, 
marked  down  from  a  hundred  and  fifty." 

"Stunning,"  I  replied,  mingled  emotions  in  my 
heart 


THE  UNIMPORTANT  FIFTH  WHEEL    41 

"There !"  exclaimed  Edith  abruptly.  "There's  your 
telegram  now.  Did  you  ever?  Getting  here  at  this 
hour!" 

A  telegraph  boy  was  coming  up  the  steps.  I  was 
fortunately  near  the  door,  and  I  opened  it  before  he 
rang,  received  my  needless  message  myself,  and  tore 
open  the  envelope. 

"You're  right,"  I  said.  "It  is  my  telegram.  It 
just  said  I  was  coming.  That's  all.  It  didn't  mat- 
ter much.  Guess  I'll  go  up  to  my  room  now,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

"Do,  dear.  Do,"  said  Edith,  "and  I'll  come  along 
too.  I  want  to  show  you  something,  anyhow.  I've 
picked  up  the  stunningest  high-boy  you  ever  saw  in 
your  life.  A  real  old  one,  worth  two  hundred  and 
fifty,  but  I  got  it  for  a  hundred.  I've  put  it  right  out- 
side your  room,  and  very  carefully — oh,  most  care- 
fully— with  my  own  hands,  Honey,  I  just  laid  your 
things  in  it.  I  simply  couldn't  have  the  bureau  draw- 
ers in  that  room  filled  up,  you  know,  with  all  the 
house-parties  I'm  having,  and  you  not  here  half  the 
time.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  mind,  and  the  high-boy 
is  so  stunning!"  We  had  gone  upstairs  and  were 
approaching  it  now.  "I  put  all  your  underclothes 
in  those  long  shallow  drawers;  and  your  ribbons  and 
gloves  and  things  in  these  deep,  low  ones.  And  then 
up  here  in  the  top  I've  laid  carefully  all  the  truck  you 
had  stowed  away  in  that  little  old  white  enameled 
desk  of  yours.  The  desk  I  put  up  in  the  store-room. 
It  wasn't  decent  for  guests.  I've  bought  a  new  one 


42  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

to  take  its  place.  I  do  hope  you'll  like  it.  It's  a 
spinet  desk,  and  stunning.  Oh,  dear — there  it  is  now 
ten  minutes  of  seven,  and  I've  simply  got  to  go.  I 
promised  to  pick  up  Alec  at  the  Club  on  the  way.  I 
don't  believe  I've  told  you  I've  had  your  room  redeco- 
rated. I  wish  I  could  wait  and  see  if  you're  pleased. 
But  I  can't — simply  can't!  You  understand,  don't 
you,  dear?  But  make  yourself  comfy." 

She  kissed  me  then  very  lightly  on  the  cheek,  and 
turned  and  tripped  away  downstairs.  When  I  caught 
the  purr  of  the  vanishing  limousine  as  it  sped  away 
down  the  winding  drive,  I  opened  the  door  of  my 
room.  It  was  very  pretty,  very  elegant,  as  perfectly 
appointed  as  any  hotel  room  I  had  ever  gazed  upon, 
but  mine  no  more.  This  one  little  sacred  precinct  had 
been  entered  in  my  absence  and  robbed  of  every  ves- 
tige of  me.  Instead  of  my  single  four-poster  were 
two  mahogany  sleigh  beds,  spread  with  expensively 
embroidered  linen.  Instead  of  my  magazine  cut  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  pinned  beside  the  east  win- 
dow was  a  signed  etching.  Instead  of  my  own  fa- 
miliar desk  welcoming  me  with  bulging  packets  of 
old  letters,  waiting  for  some  rainy  morning  to  be 
read  and  sentimentally  destroyed,  appeared  the  spinet 
desk,  furnished  with  brand  new  blotters,  chaste  pens, 
and  a  fresh  book  of  two-cent  stamps.  All  but  my 
mere  flesh  and  bones  had  been  conveniently  stuffed 
into  a  two-hundred  and  fifty  dollar  high-boy! 

I  could  have  burst  into  tears  if  I  had  dared  to  fling 
myself  down  upon  the  embroidered  spreads.  And 


THE  UNIMPORTANT  FIFTH  WHEEL    43 

then  suddenly  from  below  I  Heard  the  scramble  of 
four  little  feet  on  the  hardwood  floor,  the  eager,  anx- 
ious pant  of  a  wheezy  little  dog  hurrying  up  the  stairs. 
It  was  Dandy — my  Boston  terrier.  Somehow,  down 
behind  the  kitchen  stove  he  had  sensed  me,  and  his 
little  dog  heart  was  bursting  with  welcome.  Only 
Dandy  had  really  missed  me,  sitting  long,  patient 
hours  at  a  time  at  the  living-room  window,  watching 
for  me  to  come  up  the  drive ;  and  finally  starting  out 
on  mysterious  night  searches  of  his  own,  as  he  al- 
ways does  when  days  pass  and  I  do  not  return.  I 
heard  the  thud  of  his  soft  body  as  he  slipped  and  fell, 
in  his  haste,  on  the  slippery  hall  floor.  And  then  a 
moment  later  he  was  upon  me — paws  and  tongue  and 
half-human  little  yelps  and  cries  pouring  out  their 
eloquence. 

I  held  the  wriggling,  ecstatic  little  body  close  to 
me,  and  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  if  some 
human  being  was  as  glad  to  see  me  as  Dandy. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BRECK    SEWALL   AGAIN 

AS  I  stood  there  in  my  devastated  room,  hugging 
to  me  a  little  scrap  of  a  dog,  a  desire  to  conceal 
my  present  poverty  swept  over  me,  just  as  I  had  al- 
ways wanted  to  hide  the  tell-tale  economies  of  our 
household  years  ago  from  my  more  affluent  friends. 
I  did  not  want  pity.  I  was  Ruth,  of  whom  my  family 
had  predicted  great  things — vague  great  things,  I  con- 
fess. Never  had  I  been  quite  certain  what  they  were 
to  be — but  something  rather  splendid  anyhow. 

We  become  what  those  nearest  to  us  make  us.  The 
family  made  out  of  my  oldest  brother  Tom  counselor 
and  wise  judge;  out  of  my  sister  Lucy  chief  cook  and 
general-manager;  out  of  me  butterfly  and  ornament. 
In  the  eyes  of  the  family  I  have  always  been  frivolous 
and  worldly,  and  though  they  criticize  these  quali- 
ties of  mine,  underneath  their  righteous  veneer  I  dis- 
cover them  marveling.  They  disparage  my  extrava- 
gance in  dressing,  and  then  admire  my  frocks.  In  one 
breath  they  ridicule  social  ambition,  and  in  the  next 
inquire  into  my  encounters  and  triumphs.  A  desire 
to  remain  in  my  old  position  I  offer  now  as  the  least 
contemptible  excuse  of  any  that  I  can  think  of  for 

44 


BRECK  SEWALL  AGAIN  45 

the  following  events  of  my  life.  I  didn't  want  to 
resign  my  place  like  an  actress  who  can  no  longer 
take  ingenue  parts  because  of  wrinkles  and  gray  hairs. 
When  I  came  home  that  day  and  discovered  how  un- 
important I  was,  how  weak  had  become  my  applause; 
instead  of  trying  to  play  a  new  part  by  making  my- 
self useful  and  necessary — helping  with  the  house- 
work, putting  away  laundry,  mending,  and  so  on — 
I  went  about  concocting  ways  and  methods  of  filling 
more  dazzlingly  my  old  role. 

Although  my  fever  had  practically  disappeared  by 
the  time  I  went  to  bed  that  night,  I  lolled  down  to 
the  breakfast  table  the  next  morning  later  than  ever, 
making  an  impression  in  a  shell-pink  tea-gown;  lux- 
uriously dawdled  over  a  late  egg  and  coffee ;  and  then 
lazily  borrowed  a  maid  about  eleven  o'clock  and  al- 
lowed her  to  unpack  for  me.  Meanwhile  I  lay  back  on 
the  couch,  criticized  to  Edith  the  tone  of  gray  of  the 
paper  in  my  room,  carelessly  suggested  that  there 
were  too  many  articles  on  the  shelf  from  an  artistic 
point  of  view,  and  then  suffered  myself  to  be  con- 
sulted on  an  invitation  list  for  a  party  Edith  was  plan- 
ning to  give.  The  description  of  my  past  two  months' 
gaieties,  recited  in  rather  a  bored  and  blase  manner, 
lacked  none  of  the  usual  color.  My  references  to 
attentions  from  various  would-be  suitors  proved  to 
Edith  and  Alec  that  I  was  keeping  up  my  record. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  not  long  after  my  return 
to  Hilton,  Edith  and  I  attended  a  tea  at  the  Country 
Club.  The  terrace,  open  to  the  sky  and  covered  with 


46  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

a  dozen  small  round  tables,  made  a  pretty  sight — girls 
in  light-colored  gowns  and  flowery  hats  predominat- 
ing early  in  the  afternoon,  but  gradually,  from  mys- 
terious regions  of  lockers  and  shower-baths  below, 
joined  by  men  in  white  flannels  and  tennis-shoes. 

Edith's  and  my  table  was  popular  that  day.  I  had 
been  away  from  Hilton  for  so  long  that  a  lot  of  our 
friends  gathered  about  us  to  welcome  me  home.  I 
was  chatting  away  to  a  half  dozen  of  them,  when  I 
saw  two  men  strolling  up  from  the  seventeenth  green. 
One  of  the  men  was  Breckenridge  Sewall.  I  glanced 
over  the  rim  of  my  cup  the  second  time  to  make  cer- 
tain. Yes,  it  was  Breck — the  same  old  blase,  dis- 
sipated-looking Breck.  I  had  thought  he  was  still 
in  Europe.  To  reach  the  eighteenth  tee  the  men  had 
to  pass  within  ten  feet  of  the  terrace.  My  back  would 
be  toward  them.  I  didn't  know  if  a  second  oppor- 
tunity would  be  offered  me.  Grassmere,  the  Sewall 
estate,  was  not  open  this  year.  Breck  might  be  gone 
by  the  next  day.  I  happened  at  the  time  to  be  talk- 
ing about  a  certain  tennis  tournament  with  a  man  who 
had  been  an  eye-witness.  I  rose  and  put  down  my 
cup  of  tea. 

"Come  over  and  tell  me  about  it,  please,"  I  said, 
smiling  upon  him.  "I've  finished.  Take  my  chair, 
Phyllis,"  I  added  sweetly  to  a  young  girl  standing 
near.  "Do,  dear.  Mr.  Call  and  I  are  going  to  dec- 
orate the  balustrade." 

I  selected  a  prominent  position  beside  a  huge 
earthen  pot  of  flowering  geraniums.  It  was  a  low 


BRECK  SEWALL  AGAIN  47 

balustrade  with  a  flat  top,  designed  to  sit  upon.  I 
leaned  back  against  the  earthen  jar  and  proceeded,  to 
appear  engrossed  in  tennis.  Really,  though,  I  was 
wondering  if  Breck  would  see  me  after  all,  and  what 
I  should  say  if  he  did. 

What  I  did  say  was  conventional  enough — simply, 
"Why,  how  do  you  do,"  to  his  eager,  "Hello,  Miss 
Vars!"  while  I  shook  hands  with  him  as  he  stood 
beneath  me  on  the  ground. 

"Saw  you  on  Fifth  Avenue  a  week  ago,"  he  went 
on,  "hiking  for  some  place  in  a  taxi.  Lost  you  in  the 
crowd  at  Forty-second.  Thought  you  might  be  round- 
ing up  here  before  long.  So  decided  I'd  run  up  and 
say  howdy.  Look  here,  wait  for  me,  will  you?  I've 
got  only  one  hole  more  to  play.  Do.  Wait  for  me. 
I'll  see  that  you  get  home  all  right." 

Edith  returned  alone  in  the  automobile  that  after- 
noon. 

"I'll  come  along  later,"  I  explained  mysteriously. 

She  hadn't  seen  Breck,  thank  heaven!  She  would 
have  been  sure  to  have  blundered  into  a  dinner  invi- 
tation, or  some  such  form  of  effusion.  But  she  sur- 
mised that  something  unusual  was  in  the  air,  and 
was  watching  for  me  from  behind  lace  curtains  in 
the  living-room  when  I  returned  two  hours  later.  She 
saw  a  foreign-made  car  whirl  into  the  drive  and  stop 
at  the  door.  She  saw  me  get  out  of  it  and  run  up 
the  front  steps.  The  features  of  the  man  behind  the 
big  mahogany  steering-wheel  could  be  discerned  easily. 
When  I  opened  the  front  door  my  sister-in-law  was 


48  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

in  the  vestibule.  She  grasped  me  by  both  my  arms 
just  above  my  elbows. 

"Breck  Sewall!"  she  ejaculated.  "My  dear!  Breck 
Sewall  again !" 

The  ecstasy  of  her  voice,  the  enthusiasm  of  those 
hands  of  hers  grasping  my  arms  soothed  my  hurt  feel- 
ings of  a  week  ago.  I  was  led  tenderly — almost 
worship  fully — upstairs  to  my  room. 

"I  believe  he  is  as  crazy  as  ever  about  you,"  Edith 
exclaimed,  once  behind  closed  doors.  "I  honestly 

think" — she  stopped  abruptly — "What  if '"  she 

began  again,  then  excitedly  kissed  me.  "You  little 
wonder!"  she  said.  "There's  no  one  in  the  whole 
family  to  match  you.  I'll  wager  you  could  become 
a  veritable  gateway  for  us  all  to  pass  into  New  York 
society  if  you  wanted  to.  You're  a  marvel — you  are ! 
Tell  me  about  it."  Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  gazed 
upon  me.  I  realized  in  a  flash  just  what  the  splendid 
thing  was  that  I  might  do.  Of  course !  How  simple ! 
I  might  marry  Breck! 

"Well,"  I  said  languidly,  gazing  at  my  reflection  in 
the  mirror  and  replacing  a  stray  lock,  "I  suppose  I'd 
rather  be  a  gateway  than  a  fifth  wheel." 

The  next  time  that  Breck  asked  me  to  marry  him, 
I  didn't  call  him  absurd.  I  was  older  now.  I 
must  put  away  my  dolls  and  air-castles.  The  time  had 
come,  it  appeared,  for  me  to  assume  a  woman's  bur- 
dens, among  which  often  is  an  expedient  marriage.  I 
could  no  longer  offer  my  tender  years  as  an  excuse 
for  side-stepping  a  big  opportunity.  I  musn't  falter. 


BRECK  SEWALL  AGAIN  49 

The  moment  had  arrived.  I  accepted  Breck,  and  down 
underneath  a  pile  of  stockings  in  the  back  of  my  low- 
est bureau  drawer  I  hid  a  little  velvet-lined  jewel- 
box,  inside  of  which  there  lay  an  enormous  diamond 
solitaire — promise  of  my  brilliant  return  to  the  foot- 
lights. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    MILLIONS    WIN 

SOME  people  cannot  understand  how  a  girl  can 
marry  a  man  she  doesn't  love.  She  can  do  it 
more  easily  than  she  can  stay  at  home,  watch  half  her 
friends  marry,  and  feel  herself  slowly  ossifying  into 
something  worthless  and  unessential.  It  takes  more 
courage  to  sit  quietly,  wait  for  what  may  never  come, 
and  observe  without  misgiving  the  man  you  might 
have  had  making  some  other  woman's  life  happy  and 
complete. 

I  couldn't  go  on  living  in  guest-rooms  forever.  I 
was  tired  of  traveling,  and  sick  to  death  of  leading  a 
life  that  meant  nothing  to  anybody  but  Dandy.  As  a 
debutante  I  had  had  a  distinct  mission — whether 
worthy  or  unworthy  isn't  the  point  in  question — 
worked  for  it  hard,  schemed,  devised,  and  succeeded. 
As  Mrs.  Breckenridge  Sewall  I  could  again  accom- 
plish results.  Many  women  marry  simply  because 
they  cannot  endure  an  arid  and  purposeless  future. 

Some  people  think  that  a  girl  who  marries  for  posi- 
tion is  hard  and  calculating.  Why,  I  entered  into  my 
engagement  in  the  exalted  mood  of  a  martyr!  I  didn't 
feel  hard — I  felt  self-sacrificing,  like  a  girl  in  royal 

50 


THE  MILLIONS  WIN  51 

circles  whose  marriage  may  distinguish  herself  and 
her  people  to  such  an  extent  that  the  mere  question 
of  her  own  personal  feelings  is  of  small  importance. 
The  more  I  considered  marrying  Breck  the  more  con- 
vinced I  became  that  it  was  the  best  thing  I  could  do. 
With  my  position  placed  upon  my  brow,  like  a  crown 
on  a  king,  freed  at  last  from  all  the  mean  and  be- 
smirching tricks  of  acquiring  social  distinction,  I  could 
grow  and  expand.  When  I  looked  ahead  and  saw 
myself  one  day  mistress  of  Grassmere,  the  London 
house,  the  grand  mansion  in  New  York;  wise  and 
careful  monitor  of  the  Sewall  millions;  gracious  hos- 
tess; kind  ruler;  I  felt  as  nearly  religious  as  ever  be- 
fore in  my  life.  I  meant  to  do  good  with  my  wealth 
and  position  and  influence.  Is  that  hard  and  calcu- 
lating? 

I  accepted  Breck's  character  and  morals  as  a  candi- 
date chosen  for  the  honorable  office  of  governor  of 
a  state  must  accept  the  condition  of  politics,  whether 
they  are  clean  or  rotten.  Clean  politics  are  the  excep- 
tion. So  also  are  clean  morals.  I  knew  enough  for 
that.  Way  back  in  boarding-school  days,  we  girls  had 
resigned  ourselves  to  the  acceptance  of  the  deplorable 
state  of  the  world's  morals.  We  had  statistics.  I  had 
dimly  hoped  that  one  of  the  exceptions  to  the  rule 
might  fall  to  my  lot,  but  if  not,  I  wasn't  going  to  be 
prudish.  Breck's  early  career  could  neither  surprise 
nor  alarm  me.  I,  like  most  girls  in  this  frank  and 
open  age,  had  been  prepared  for  it.  So  when  Lucy, 


52  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

who  is  anything  but  worldly  wise,  and  Will,  her  hus- 
band, who  is  a  scientist  and  all  brains,  came  bearing 
frenzied  tales  of  Breck's  indiscretions  during  his  one 
year  at  the  university  where  Will  is  now  located,  I 
simply  smiled.  Some  people  are  so  terribly  naive  and 
unsophisticated ! 

The  family's  attitude  toward  my  engagement  was 
consistent — deeply  impressed,  but  tainted  with  disap- 
proval. Tom  came  way  on  from  Wisconsin  to  tell  me 
how  contemptible  it  was  for  a  girl  to  marry  for  posi- 
tion, even  for  so  amazingly  a  distinguished  one. 
Elise,  his  wife,  penned  me  a  long  letter  on  the  empti- 
ness of  power  and  wealth.  Malcolm  wrote  he  hoped 
I  knew  what  I  was  getting  into,  and  supposed  after  I 
became  Mrs.  Breckenridge  Sewall  I'd  feel  too  fine  to 
recognize  him,  should  we  meet  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Oli- 
ver was  absolutely  "flabbergasted"  at  first,  he  wrote, 
but  must  confess  it  would  save  a  lot  of  expense  for 
the  family,  if  they  could  stop  with  Brother  Breck 
when  they  came  down  to  New  York.  "How'd  you 
pull  it  off,  Toots?"  he  added.  "Hope  little  Cupid 
had  something  to  do  with  it." 

Alec  waited  until  Edith  had  gone  to  Boston  for  a 
day's  shopping,  and  took  me  for  a  long  automobile 
ride.  Alec,  by  the  way,  is  one  of  this  world's  saints. 
He  has  always  been  the  member  of  the  Vars  family 
who  has  resigned  himself  to  circumstances.  It  was 
Tom  who  went  West  and  made  a  brilliant  future  for 
himself;  Alec  who  remained  in  Hilton  to  stand  by 
father's  dying  business.  It  was  the  twins  who  were 


THE  MILLIONS  WIN  53 

helped  to  graduate  from  college  in  spite  of  difficulties; 
Alec  who  cheerfully  gave  up  his  diploma  to  offer  a 
helping  hand  at  home.  When  Alec  married  Edith 
Campbell  it  appeared  that  at  last  he  had  come  into  his 
own.  She  was  immensely  wealthy.  Father's  business 
took  a  new  lease  of  life.  At  last  Alec  was  prosperous, 
but  he  had  to  go  on  adapting  and  resigning  just  the 
same.  With  the  arrival  of  the  Summer  Colony 
Edith's  ambitions  burst  into  life,  and  of  course  he 
couldn't  be  a  drag  on  her  future — and  mine — any 
more  than  on  Tom's  or  the  twins'.  He  acquiesced; 
he  fitted  in  without  reproach.  Today  in  regard  to 
my  engagement  he  complained  but  gently. 

"We're  simple  New  England  people  after  all,"  he 
said.  "A  girl  is  usually  happier  married  to  a  man  of 
her  own  sort.  You  weren't  born  into  the  kind  of  life 
the  Sewalls  lead.  You  weren't  born  into  even  the 
kind  of  life  you're  leading  now.  Edith — Edith's  fine, 
of  course,  and  I've  always  been  glad  you  two  were  so 
congenial — but  she  does  exaggerate  the  importance 
of  the  social  game.  She  plays  it  too  hard.  I  don't 
want  you  to  marry  Sewall.  I'm  afraid  you  won't  be 
happy." 

When  Edith  came  home  that  night  I  asked  her  if 
she  knew  how  Alec  felt. 

"Of  course  I  do.  The  dear  old  fogey !  But  this  is 
the  way  I  look  at  it,  Ruth.  Some  people  not  born 
into  a  high  place  get  there  just  the  same  through 
sheer  nerve  and  determination,  and  others  spend  their 
whole  worthless  lives  at  home  on  the  farm.  It  isn't 


54  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

what  a  person  is  born  into,  but  what  he  is  equal  to, 
that  decides  his  success.  Mercy,  child,  don't  let  a 
dear,  silly,  older  brother  bother  you.  Sweet  old  Al 
doesn't  know  what  he's  talking  about.  I'd  like  to 
know  what  he  would  advise  doing  with  his  little  sister, 
if,  after  all  the  talk  there  is  about  her  and  Breck,  he 
could  succeed  in  breaking  off  her  engagement.  She'd 
be  just  an  old  glove  kicking  around.  That's  what 
she'd  be.  Al  is  simply  crazy.  I'll  have  to  talk  to 
him!" 

"Don't  bother,"  I  said,  "I'm  safe.  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  becoming  an  old  glove." 

Possibly  in  the  privacy  of  my  own  bed  at  night, 
where  so  often  now  I  lay  wide-awake  waiting  for  the 
dawn,  I  did  experience  a  few  misgivings.  But  by  the 
time  I  was  ready  to  go  down  to  breakfast  I  had  usually 
persuaded  myself  into  sanity  again.  I  used  to  reit- 
erate all  the  desirable  points  about  Breck  I  could  think 
of  and  calm  my  fears  by  dwelling  upon  the  many  de- 
mands of  my  nature  that  he  could  supply — influence, 
power,  delight  in  environment,  travel,  excitement. 

When  I  was  a  child  I  was  instructed  by  my  draw- 
ing-teacher to  sketch  with  my  stick  of  charcoal  a  vase, 
a  book,  and  a  red  rose,  which  he  arranged  in  a  group 
on  a  table  before  me.  I  had  a  great  deal  of  difficulty 
with  the  rose;  so  after  struggling  for  about  half  an 
hour  I  got  up  and,  unobserved,  put  the  rose  behind 
the  vase,  so  that  only  its  stem  was  visible  to  me.  Then 
I  took  a  fresh  page  and  began  again.  The  result  was 
a  very  fair  portrayal  of  the  articles  as  they  then  ap- 


THE  MILLIONS  WIN  55 

peared.  So  with  my  ideal  of  marriage — when  I  found 
its  arrangement  impossible  to  portray  in  my  life — I 
simply  slipped  out  of  sight  that  for  which  the  red 
rose  is  sometimes  the  symbol  (I  mean  love)  and  went 
ahead  sketching  in  the  other  things. 

I  explained  all  this  to  Breck  one  day.  I  wanted  to 
be  honest  with  him. 

"Say,  what  are  you  driving  at  ?  Red  roses !  Draw- 
ing lessons!  What's  that  got  to  do  with  whether 
you'll  run  down  to  Boston  for  dinner  with  me  to- 
night? You  do  talk  the  greatest  lot  of  stuff!  But 
have  it  your  own  way.  I'm  satisfied.  Just  jump  in 
beside  me!  Will  you?  Darn  it!  I  haven't  the  pa- 
tience of  a  saint!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    HORSE   SHOW 

CONVENTIONS  may  sometimes  appear  silly 
and  absurd,  but  most  of  them  are  made  for 
practical  purposes.  Ignore  them  and  you'll  discover 
yourself  in  difficulty.  Leave  your  spoon  in  your  cup 
and  your  arm  will  unexpectedly  hit  it  sometime,  and 
over  will  go  everything  on  to  the  tablecloth.  If  I  had 
not  ignored  certain  conventions  I  wouldn't  be  crying 
over  spilled  milk  now. 

I  allowed  myself  to  become  engaged  to  Breck;  ac- 
cepted his  ring  and  hid  it  in  my  lowest  bureau  drawer  ; 
told  my  family  my  intentions;  let  the  world  see  me 
dining,  dancing,  theater-ing  and  motoring  like  mad 
with  Breck  and  draw  its  conclusions;  and  all  this, 
mind  you,  before  I  had  received  a  word  of  any  sort 
whatsoever  from  my  prospective  family-in-law.  This, 
as  everybody  knows,  is  irregular,  and  as  bad  form  as 
leaving  your  spoon  in  your  cup.  No  wonder  I  got 
into  difficulty! 

My  prospective  family-in-law  consisted  simply  of 
Breck's  mother,  Mrs.  F.  Rockridge  Sewall — a  very 
elegant  and  perfectly  poised  woman  she  seemed  to 
me  the  one  time  I  had  seen  her  at  close  range,  as  she 

56 


THE  HORSE  SHOW  57 

sat  at  the  head  of  the  sumptuous  table  in  the  tapestry- 
hung  dining-room  at  Grassmere.  I  admired  Mrs. 
Sewall.  I  used  to  think  that  I  could  succeed  in  living 
up  to  her  grand  manners  with  better  success  than  the 
other  rather  hoidenish  young  ladies  who  chanced  to 
be  the  guests  at  Grassmere  the  time  I  was  there.  Mrs. 
Sewall  is  a  small  woman,  always  dressed  in  black,  with 
a  superb  string  of  pearls  invariably  about  her  neck, 
and  lots  of  brilliant  diamonds  on  her  slender  fingers. 
Breck  with  his  heavy  features,  black  hair  brushed 
straight  back,  eyes  half -closed  as  if  he  was  always 
riding  in  a  fifty-mile  gale,  deep  guffaw  of  a  laugh, 
and  inelegant  speech  does  not  resemble  his  mother. 
It  is  strange,  but  the  picture  that  I  most  enjoyed  dwell- 
ing upon,  when  I  contemplated  my  future  life,  was  one 
of  myself  creeping  up  Fifth  Avenue  on  late  after- 
noons in  the  Sewalls'  crested  automobile,  seated,  not 
beside  Breck,  but  in  intimate  conversation  beside  my 
aristocratic  mother-in-law. 

As  humiliating  as  it  was  to  me  to  continue  engaged 
to  a  man  from  whose  mother  there  had  been  made 
no  sign  of  welcome  or  approval,  I  did  so  because 
Breck  plead  that  Mrs.  Sewall  was  on  the  edge  of  a 
nervous  break-down,  and  to  announce  any  startling 
piece  of  news  to  her  at  such  a  time  would  be  unwise. 
I  was  foolish  enough  to  believe  him.  I  deceived  my- 
self into  thinking  that  my  course  was  allowable  and 
self-respecting. 

Breck  used  to  run  up  from  New  York  to  Hilton 
in  his  car  for  Sunday ;  and  sometimes  during  the  week, 


58  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

in  his  absurd  eagerness,  he  would  dash  up  to  our 
door  and  ring  the  bell  as  late  as  eleven  o'clock,  simply 
because  he  had  been  seized  with  a  desire  to  bid  me 
good-night. 

When  Edith  and  I  went  to  New  York  for  a  week's 
shopping  we  were  simply  deluged  with  attentions  from 
Breck — theater  every  night,  luncheons,  dinners  and 
even  breakfasts  occasionally  squeezed  in  between.  All 
this,  I  supposed,  was  carried  on  without  Mrs.  Sewall's 
knowledge.  I  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to 
have  excused  it.  It  was  my  fault.  I  blame  myself. 
Such  an  unconventional  affair  deserved  to  end  in 
catastrophe.  But  to  Edith  it  ended  not  in  spilled  milk, 
but  in  a  spilled  pint  of  her  life's  blood. 

One  night  in  midsummer  when  I  was  just  drop- 
ping off  to  sleep,  Edith  knocked  gently  on  my  door, 
and  then  opened  it  and  came  in.  She  was  all  ready 
for  bed  with  her  hair  braided  down  her  back. 

"Asleep?" 

"No,"  I  replied.    "What's  the  matter?" 

"Did  you  know  Grassmere  was  open?" 

"Why?"  I  demanded. 

"Because,  just  as  I  was  fixing  the  curtain  in  my 
room  I  happened  to  look  up  there.  It's  all  lit  up,  up- 
stairs and  down.  Even  the  ball-room.  Did  you  know 
about  it?" 

I  had  to  confess  that  I  didn't.  Breck  had  told  me 
that  his  mother  would  remain  in  the  rented  palace  at 
Newport  for  the  remainder  of  the  season,  under  the 
care  of  a  specialist. 


THE  HORSE  SHOW  59 

"Looks  as  if  they  were  having  a  big  affair  of  some 
sort  up  there.  I  guess  Mrs.  F.  Rockridge  has  recov- 
ered from  her  nervous  break-down!  Come,  get  up 
and  see." 

"Oh,  I'll  take  your  word  for  it,"  I  replied  indiffer- 
ently. But  I  won't  say  what  my  next  act  was  after 
Edith  had  gone  out  of  the  room.  You  may  be  sure 
I  didn't  immediately  drop  off  to  sleep. 

I  looked  for  one  of  Breck's  ill-penned  letters  the 
next  morning,  but  none  came.  No  wire  of  telephone 
message  either.  Not  until  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon did  I  receive  any  explanation  of  the  lights  at 
Grassmere.  Edith  had  been  to  her  bridge  club,  and 
came  rushing  up  on  the  veranda,  eager  and  excited. 
There  were  little  bright  spots  in  the  center  of  each 
cheek.  Edith's  a  handsome  woman,  thirty-five  or 
eight,  I  think,  and  very  smart  in  appearance.  She 
has  dark  brilliant  eyes,  and  a  quality  in  her  voice 
and  manner  that  makes  you  feel  as  if  there  were  about 
eight  cylinders  and  all  in  perfect  order,  too,  chugging 
away  underneath  her  shiny  exterior. 

"Where's  the  mail  ?"  she  asked  of  me.  I  was  lying 
on  the  wicker  couch. 

"Oh,  inside,  I  guess,  on  the  hall  table.  I  don't 
know.  Why?" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  said,  and  disappeared.  She 
rejoined  me  an  instant  later,  with  two  circulars  and  a 
printed  post-card. 

"Is  this  all  there  is  ?"  Edith  demanded  again,  and  I 
could  see  the  red  spots  on  her  cheeks  grow  deeper. 


60  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"That's  all,"  I  assured  her.  "Expecting  some- 
thing?" 

"Have  you  had  any  trouble  with  Breck?"  she 
flashed  out  at  me  next. 

"What  are  you  driving  at,  Edith?"  I  inquired. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"Mrs.  Sewall  is  giving  a  perfectly  enormous  ball 
at  Grassmere  on  the  twenty-fourth,  and  we're  left 
out.  That's  the  matter !"  She  tossed  the  mail  on  the 
table. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "our  invitations  will  come  in  the 
morning  probably.  There  are  often  delays." 

"No,  sir,  I  know  better.  The  bridge  club  girls  said 
their  invitations  came  yesterday  afternoon.  I  can't 
understand  it.  We  certainly  were  on  Mrs.  Sewall's 
list  when  she  gave  that  buffet-luncheon  three  years 
ago.  And  now  we're  not!  That's  the  bald  truth  of 
it.  It  was  terribly  embarrassing  this  afternoon — all 
of  them  telling  about  what  they  were  going  to  wear — 
it's  going  to  be  a  masquerade — and  I  sitting  there  like 
a  dummy!  Helene  McClellan  broke  the  news  to  me. 
She  blurted  right  out,  'Oh,  do  tell  us,  Edith,'  she  said 
to  me,  'is  Mrs.  Sewall's  ball  to  announce  your  sister's 
engagement  to  her  son?  We're  crazy  to  know!'  Of 
course  I  didn't  let  on  at  first  that  we  weren't  even 
invited,  but  it  had  to  leak  out  later.  Oh,  it  is  simply 
humiliating!" 

"Is  she  at  Grassmere  now — Mrs.  Sewall,  I  mean?" 
I  asked  quietly. 

"Yes,  she  is.     There's  a  big  house-party  going  on 


THE  HORSE  SHOW  61 

there  this  very  minute.  The  club  girls  knew  all  about 
it.  Mrs.  Sewall  has  got  a  niece  or  somebody  or  other 
with  her,  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  and  the  ball  is 
being  given  in  her  honor.  Gale  Oliphant,  I  believe 
the  girl's  name  is.  But  look  here,  it  seems  very  queer 
to  me  that  I'm  the  one  to  be  giving  you  this  informa- 
tion instead  of  Breck.  What  does  it  all  mean  any- 
how? Come,  confess.  You  must  have  had  a  tiff  or 
something  with  Breck." 

"I  don't  have  tiffs,  Edith,"  I  said,  annoyed. 

"Well,  you  needn't  get  mad  about  it.  There  must 
be  some  reason  for  our  being  slighted  in  this  fashion. 
I'm  sure  I've  done  nothing.  It's  not  my  fault.  I 
wouldn't  care  if  it  was  small,  but  everybody  who  isn't 
absolutely  beyond  the  pale  is  invited." 

"There's  no  use  losing  your  nerve,  Edith,"  I  said 
in  an  exasperatingly  calm  manner. 

"Good  heavens!"  Edith  exclaimed.  "You  seem  to 
enjoy  slights,  but  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  shouldn't 
enjoy  slights  from  my  prospective  mother-in-law,  any- 
how!" 

"You  needn't  be  insulting,"  I  remarked,  arranging 
a  sofa-pillow  with  care  underneath  my  head  and  turn- 
ing my  attention  to  my  magazine. 

Edith  went  into  the  house.  The  screen  door 
slammed  behind  her.  I  didn't  stir,  just  kept  right  on 
staring  at  the  printed  page  before  me  and  turning  a 
leaf  now  and  again,  as  if  I  were  really  reading. 

Gale  Oliphant!  I  knew  all  about  her.  I  had  met 
her  first  at  the  house-party  at  Grassmere — a  silly  little 


62  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

thing,  I  had  thought  her,  rather  pretty,  and  a  tre- 
mendous flirt.  Breck  had  said  she  was  worth  a  mil- 
lion in  her  own  name.  I  remembered  that,  because  he 
explained  that  he  had  been  rather  keen  about  her 
before  he  met  me.  "That  makes  my  eight  hundred 
dollars  a  year  look  rather  sickly,  doesn't  it?"  I  replied. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  sure  does!  But  let  me  tell  you 
that  you  make  her  look  like  a  last  year's  straw  hat." 
However,  the  last  year's  straw  hat  possessed  some 
attraction  for  Breck,  because  during  the  three  years 
that  Grassmere  was  closed  and  the  Sewalls  were  in 
Europe,  Breck  and  Gale  Oliphant  saw  a  lot  of  each 
other.  Breck  told  me  that  she  really  was  better  than 
nothing,  and  his  mater  was  terribly  keen  about  hav- 
ing her  around. 

I  tried  in  every  way  I  could  to  explain  away  my 
fears.  I  mustn't  be  hasty.  Well-mannered  thoughts 
didn't  jump  to  foolish  conclusions.  Breck  would 
probably  explain  the  situation  to  me.  I  must  wait 
with  calmness  and  composure.  And  I  did,  all  the 
next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  third,  until  finally 
there  arrived  one  of  Breck's  infrequent  scrawls. 

The  envelope  was  postmarked  Maine.  I  opened  it, 
and  read: 

"DEAR  RUTH: 

"I  am  crazy  to  see  you.  It  seems  like  a  week  of 
Sundays.  The  mater  got  a  notion  she  wanted  me  to 
come  up  to  Bar  Harbor  and  bring  down  the  yacht. 
I  brought  three  fellows  with  me.  Some  spree!  But 


THE  HORSE  SHOW  63 

we're  good  little  boys.  The  captain  struck.  Waiting 
for  another.  Won't  round  up  at  your  place  for  an- 
other week.  I'm  yours  and  don't  forget  it.  It  seems 
like  a  week  of  Sundays.  Mater  popped  the  news  she's 
going  to  open  up  old  Grassmere  pretty  soon.  Then  it 
will  be  like  a  week  of  holidays  for  yours  truly,  if 
you're  at  home  to  sit  in  that  pergola  effect  with. 
Savvy?  Showed  the  fellows  the  snapshots  tonight 
but  Jidn't  tell  them.  Haven't  touched  a  drop  for  four 
weeks  and  three  days.  Never  did  that  stunt  for  any 
queen  before.  Good-night,  you  little  fish.  Don't 
worry  about  that  though.  I'll  warm  you  up  O.K. 
Trust  Willie." 

I  used  to  feel  apologetic  for  Breck's  letters,  and 
tear  them  up  as  quickly  as  possible,  before  any  one 
could  see  how  crude  and  ill-spelled  they  were.  But  I 
wasn't  troubled  about  such  details  in  this  letter.  It 
brought  immense  relief.  Breck  was  so  natural  and  so 
obviously  unaware  of  trouble  brewing  at  home. 
Surely,  I  needn't  be  alarmed.  The  invitation  for  the 
masquerade  might  have  been  misdirected  or  have 
slipped  down  behind  something.  Accidents  do  take 
place.  Of  course  it  was  most  unfortunate,  but  fate 
performs  unfortunate  feats  sometimes. 

In  my  eagerness  to  dispel  my  fears  it  never  crossed 
my  mind  that  Breck's  absence  was  planned,  so  that 
Mrs.  Sewall  could  start  her  attack  without  interfer- 
ence. She  was  a  very  clever  woman,  an  old  and  ex- 
perienced hand  at  social  maneuvers.  I  am  only  a 


64  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

beginner.  It  was  an  uneven,  one-sided  fight — for  fight 
it  was  after  all.  She  won.  She  bore  away  the  laurels. 
I  bore  away  simply  the  tattered  remnants  of  my  self- 
respect. 


Every  year  at  the  Hilton  Country  Club  a  local  horse 
show  is  held  in  mid-August,  and  many  of  the  summer 
colonists — women  as  well  as  men — exhibit  and  take 
part  in  the  different  events. 

Edith  always  has  liked  horses,  and  when  she  mar- 
ried Alec  she  rebuilt  our  run-down  stable  along  with 
the  house,  and  filled  the  empty  old  box  stalls  with  two 
or  three  valuable  thorough-breds.  Edith's  Arrow, 
Pierre,  and  Blue-grass  had  won  some  sort  of  a  ribbon 
for  the  last  half-dozen  years.  I  usually  rode  Blue- 
grass  for  Edith  in  the  jumping  event.  I  was  to  do  so 
on  the  afternoon  that  Breck's  letter  arrived. 

It  was  a  perfect  day.  The  grand-stand  with  its 
temporary  boxes  that  always  sell  at  absurdly  high 
prices  was  filled  with  the  summer  society,  dressed  in 
its  gayest  and  best.  The  brass  band  was  striking  up 
gala  airs  now  and  again,  and  the  big  bell  in  the  tower 
clanged  at  intervals.  Between  events  horses  were 
being  led  to  and  fro,  and  in  front  of  the  grand-stand 
important  individuals  wearing  white  badges  leaned 
over  the  sides  of  the  lowest  tier  of  boxes,  chatting 
familiarly  with  the  ladies  above.  A  lot  of  outsiders, 
anybody  who  could  pay  a  dollar  admission,  wandered 
at  large,  staring  openly  at  the  boxes,  leveling  opera- 


THE  HORSE  SHOW  65 

glasses,  and  telling  each  other  who  the  celebrities  were. 

Alec  was  West  on  a  business  trip,  but  Edith  had  a 
box,  of  course,  as  she  always  does.  All  around  us 
were  gathered  in  their  various  stalls  our  friends  and 
acquaintances.  It  is  the  custom  to  visit  back  and  forth 
from  box  to  box,  and  the  owner  of  each  box  is  as 
much  a  host  in  his  own  reservation  as  in  his  own  recep- 
tion-room at  home.  Our  box  is  usually  very  popular, 
but  this  year  there  was  a  marked  difference.  Of 
course  some  of  our  best  friends  did  stop  for  a  minute 
or  two,  but  those  who  sat  down  and  stayed  long 
enough  to  be  observed  were  only  men.  I  was  surprised 
and  unpleasantly  disturbed. 

Mrs.  Sewall's  box  was  not  far  away.  We  could  see 
her  seated  prominently  in  a  corner  of  it,  surrounded 
by  a  very  smart  bevy — strangers  mostly,  New  Yorkers 
I  supposed — with  Miss  Gale  Oliphant,  strikingly  cos- 
tumed in  scarlet,  in  their  midst.  A  vigilant  group  of 
summer  colonists  hovered  near-by,  now  and  again  be- 
coming one  of  the  party.  Edith  and  I  sat  quite  alone 
in  our  box  for  an  hour  fully;  I  in  my  severe  black 
habit,  with  my  elbow  on  the  railing,  my  chin  in  my 
hand,  steadily  gazing  at  the  track ;  Edith  erect,  sharp- 
eyed,  and  nervously  looking  about  in  search  of  some 
one  desirable  to  bow  to  and  invite  to  join  us. 

Finally  she  leaned  forward  and  said  to  me,  "Isn't 
this  simply  terrible?  I  can't  stand  it.  Come,  let's  get 
out." 

"Where  to?"  I  asked.    "My  event  comes  very  soon." 

"Oh,  let's  go  over  and  see  Mrs.  Jackson.     I'm  sick 


66  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

of  sitting  here  stark  alone.  Come  on — the  girls  are 
all  over  there." 

I  glanced  toward  the  Jackson  box  and  saw  a  group 
of  our  most  intimate  friends — Edith's  bridge  club 
members  and  several  of  the  girls  in  my  set,  too. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  and  we  got  up  and  strolled  along 
the  aisle. 

As  we  approached  I  observed  one  of  the  women 
nudge  another.  I  saw  Helene  McClellan  open  her 
mouth  to  speak  and  then  close  it  quickly  as  she  caught 
sight  of  us.  I  felt  under  Mrs.  Jackson's  over-effusive 
greeting  the  effort  it  was  for  her  to  appear  easy  and 
cordial.  The  group  must  have  been  talking  about  the 
masquerade,  for  as  we  joined  it  there  ensued  an  un- 
comfortable silence.  I  would  have  withdrawn,  but 
Edith  pinched  my  arm  and  boldly  went  over  and  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  empty  chairs. 

We  couldn't  have  been  there  five  minutes  when  Mrs. 
Sewall  came  strolling  along  the  aisle,  accompanied  by 
Miss  Oliphant.  She,  who  usually  held  herself  so  aloof, 
was  very  gracious  this  afternoon,  smiling  cordially  at 
left  and  right,  and  stopping  now  and  again  to  present 
her  niece.  I  saw  her  recognize  Mrs.  Jackson  and  then 
smilingly  approach  her.  We  all  rose  as  our  hostess 
got  up  and  beamingly  put  her  hand  into  Mrs.  Sewall's 
extended  one. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Jackson,"  said  Mrs.  Sewall. 
"I've  been  enjoying  your  lovely  boxful  of  young 
ladies  all  the  afternoon.  Charming,  really!  Delight- 
ful !  I  hope  you  are  all  planning  to  come  to  my  mas- 


THE  HORSE  SHOW  67 

querade,"  she  went  on,  addressing  the  whole  group 
now.  "I  want  it  to  be  a  success.  I  am  giving  it  for 
my  little  guest  here — and  my  son  also,"  she  added  with 
a  significant  smile,  as  if  to  imply  that  the  coupling  of 
Miss  Oliphant's  and  her  son's  names  was  not  acci- 
dental. "Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  McClellan!"  she 
interrupted  herself,  smiling  across  the  group  to 
Helene  who  stood  next  to  me,  "I  haven't  caught  your 
eye  before  today.  I  hope  you're  well — and  oh,  Miss 
McDowell!"  She  bowed  to  Leslie  McDowell  on  my 
other  side. 

It  was  just  about  at  this  juncture  that  I  observed 
Edith  threading  her  way  around  back  of  several  chairs 
toward  Mrs.  Sewall.  I  wish  I  could  have  stopped  her, 
but  it  was  too  late.  I  heard  her  clear  voice  suddenly 
exclaiming  from  easy  speaking  distance, 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Sewall." 

"Ah!  how  do  you  do!"  the  lady  condescended  to 
reply.  There  was  chilliness  in  the  voice.  Edith  con- 
tinued. 

"We're  so  delighted,"  she  went  on  bravely,  "to  have 
Grassmere  occupied  again.  The  lights  are  very  pretty 
on  your  hilltop  from  The  Homestead,  our  place,  you 
know." 

"Ah,  The  Homestead!"  The  chilliness  was  frosty 
now.  Edith  blushed. 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  recall  me,  Mrs.  Sewall — I  am 
Mrs.  Alexander  Vars — you  know.  My  sister " 

"Oh,  yes — Mrs.  Alexander  Vars.  I  recall  you  quite 
well,  Mrs.  Vars.  Perfectly,  in  fact,"  she  said.  Then 


68  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

stopped  short.  There  was  a  terrible  silence.  It  con- 
tinued like  a  long-drawn  out  note  on  a  violin. 

"Oh,"  nervously  piped  out  some  one  in  the  group, 
at  last,  "look  at  that  lovely  horse!  I  just  adore  black 
ones !" 

Mrs.  Sewall  raised  her  lorgnette  and  gazed  at  the 
track. 

"By  the  way,  Mrs.  Jackson,"  she  resumed,  as  if  she 
had  not  just  slaughtered  poor  Edith.  "By  the  way, 
can  you  tell  me  the  participants  in  the  next  event?  I've 
left  my  program.  So  careless!"  she  purred.  And 
afterwards  she  smilingly  accepted  a  proffered  arm- 
chair in  the  midst  of  the  scene  of  her  successful  en- 
counter. 

It  would  have  been  thoughtful,  I  think,  and  more 
humane  to  have  waited  until  the  wounded  had  been- 
carried  away — or  crawled  away.  For  there  was  no 
one  to  offer  a  helping  hand  to  Edith  and  me.  I  didn't 
expect  it.  In  social  encounters  the  vanquished  must 
look  out  for  themselves.  With  what  dignity  I  could, 
I  advanced  towards  Mrs.  Jackson. 

"Well,  I  must  trot  along,"  I  said  lightly.  "My  turn 
at  the  hurdles  will  be  coming  soon.  Come,  Edith,  let's 
.go  and  have  a  look  at  Blue-grass.  Good-by."  And 
leisurely,  although  I  longed  to  cast  down  my  eyes  and 
hasten  quickly  away  from  the  staring  faces,  I  strolled 
out  of  the  box,  followed  by  Edith;  walked  without 
haste  along  the  aisle,  even  stopping  twice  to  exchange 
a  word  or  two  with  friends;  and  finally  escaped. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CATASTROPHE 

THE  incident  at  the  horse  show  was  simply  the 
beginning.  I  couldn't  go  anywhere — to  a  tea, 
to  the  Country  Club,  or  even  down  town  for  a  morn- 
ing's shopping — and  feel  sure  of  escaping  a  fresh  cut 
or  insult  of  some  kind.  Mrs.  Sewall  went  out  of  her 
way  to  make  occasion  to  meet  and  ignore  me.  It  was 
necessary  for  her  to  go  out  of  her  way,  for  we  didn't 
meet  often  by  chance.  I  was  omitted  from  the  many 
dinners  and  dances  which  all  the  hostesses  in  Hilton 
began  to  give  in  Miss  Oliphant's  honor.  I  was  omitted 
from  the  more  intimate  afternoon  tea  and  sewing 
parties.  Gale  attended  them  now,  and  of  course  it 
would  have  been  awkward. 

I  didn't  blame  my  girl  friends  for  leaving  me  out. 
I  might  have  done  the  same  to  one  of  them.  It  isn't 
contrary  to  the  rules.  In  fact  the  few  times  I  did 
encounter  the  old  associates  it  was  far  from  pleasant. 
There  was  a  feeling  of  constraint.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  talk  about,  either.  Even  my  manicurist  and 
hairdresser,  usually  so  conversational  about  all  the 
social  events  of  the  community,  felt  embarrassed  and 
ill  at  ease,  with  the  parties  at  Grassmere,  the  costumes 

69 


70  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

for  the  masquerade,  Miss  Oliphant,  and  the  Vars 
scandal  barred  from  the  conversation. 

I  was  glad  that  Alec  was  away  on  a  western  trip. 
He,  at  least,  was  spared  the  unbeautifying  effect  of  the 
ordeal  upon  his  wife  and  sister.  Alec  hardly  ever  finds 
fault  or  criticizes,  but  underneath  his  silence  and  his 
kindness  I  often  wonder  if  there  are  not  hidden, 
wounded  illusions  and  bleeding  ideals.  Edith  and 
I  were  both  in  the  same  boat,  and  we  weren't  pleasant 
traveling  companions.  I  had  never  sailed  with  Edith 
under  such  baffling  winds  as  we  now  encountered. 
Squalls,  calms,  and  occasional  storms  we  had  experi- 
enced, but  she  had  always  kept  a  firm  hand  on  the 
rudder.  Now  she  seemed  to  lose  her  nerve  and  forget 
all  the  rules  of  successful  navigation  that  she  ever  had 
learned.  She  threw  the  charts  to  the  winds,  and  burst 
into  uncontrolled  passions  of  disappointment  and  rage. 

I  couldn't  believe  that  Edith  was  the  same  woman 
who  but  six  months  ago  had  nursed  her  only  little 
daughter,  whom  she  loves  passionately,  through  an 
alarming  sickness.  There  had  been  trained  nurses, 
but  every  night  Edith  had  taken  her  place  in  the  low 
chair  by  the  little  girl's  crib,  there  to  remain  hour  after 
hour,  waiting,  watching,  noting  with  complete  con- 
trol the  changes  for  better  or  for  worse;  sleeping 
scarcely  at  all;  and  always  smiling  quiet  encourage- 
ment to  Alec  or  to  me  when  we  would  steal  in  upon 
her.  Every  one  said  she  was  marvelous — even  the 
nurses  and  the  doctor.  It  was  as  if  she  actually  willed 
her  daughter  to  pass  through  her  terrific  crisis,  speak- 


CATASTROPHE  71 

ing  firmly  now  and  again  to  the  little  sufferer,  hold- 
ing her  spirit  steady  as  it  crossed  the  yawning  abyss. 
She  had  seemed  superb  to  me.  I  had  asked  myself  if 
I  could  ever  summon  to  my  support  such  unswerving 
strength  and  courage. 

I  didn't  hear  from  Breck  again  until  he  arrived  at 
the  front  door  unexpectedly  one  night  at  ten  o'clock.  I 
led  the  way  down  into  the  shaded  pergola,  and  there 
we  remained  until  nearly  midnight.  When  I  finally 
stole  back  to  my  room,  I  found  Edith  waiting  for  me, 
sitting  bolt  upright  on  the  foot  of  my  bed,  wide-awake, 
alert,  eyes  bright  and  hard  as  steel. 

"Well?"  she  asked  the  instant  I  came  in,  "tell  me, 
is  he  as  keen  as  ever?" 

A  wave  of  something  like  sickness  swept  over  me. 

"Yes,"  I  said  shortly. 

"Is  he  really?"  she  pursued.  "Oh,  isn't  that  splen- 
did! Really?  He  still  wants  you  to  marry  him?" 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

Edith  flung  her  arm  about  me  and  squeezed  me 
hard. 

"We'll  make  that  old  cat  of  a  mother  of  his  sing 
another  song  one  of  these  days,"  she  said.  "You're 
a  wonderful  little  kiddie,  after  all.  You'll  save  the 
day !  Trust  you !  You'll  pull  it  off  yet !  Oh,  I  have 
been  horrid,  Ruth,  this  last  fortnight.  Really  I  have. 
I  was  so  afraid  we  were  ruined,  and  we  would  be  if 
it  wasn't  for  you.  Wait  a  jiffy." 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  just  as,  very  wearily,  I  was 
putting  out  my  light,  Edith  pushed  open  my  door 


72  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

again  with  a  cup  of  something  steaming  hot  in  her 
hand. 

"Here,"  she  said.  "Malted  milk,  good  and  hot, 
with  just  a  dash  of  sherry  in  it.  'Twill  make  you 
sleep.  You  drink  it,  poor  child — wonderful  child 
too!  You  jump  in  and  drink  it!  I'll  fix  the  windows 
and  the  lights." 

I  tried  to  be  Edith's  idea  of  wonderful.  For  a 
week  I  endured  the  ignominy  of  receiving  calls  from 
Breck  in  secret,  late  at  night  when  he  was  able  to 
steal  away  from  the  gaieties  at  Grassmere.  For  a 
week  I  spent  long  idle  days  in  the  garden,  in  my  room, 
on  the  veranda — anywhere  at  all  where  I  could  best 
kill  the  galling,  unoccupied  hours  until  night,  and 
Breck  was  free  to  come  to  me. 

I  did  not  annoy  him  with  demands  for  explanation 
of  a  situation  already  painfully  clear  to  me.  I  knew 
that  he  spoke  truth  when  he  assured  me  he  could  not 
alter  his  mother's  opposition  at  present,  and  I  did  not 
disturb  our  evening  talks  by  reproaches.  I  assumed 
a  grand  air  of  indifference  toward  Mrs.  Sewall  and 
her  attacks,  as  if  I  was  some  invulnerable  creature 
beyond  and  above  her.  I  didn't  even  cheapen  myself 
by  appearing  to  observe  that  Breck's  invitations  to 
appear  in  public  with  him  had  suddenly  been  re- 
placed by  demands  for  private  and  stolen  interviews. 

Of  course  his  duties  as  host  were  many  and  con- 
sumed most  of  his  time.  His  clever  mother  saw  to 
that.  He  said  that  there  were  twenty  guests  at  Grass- 
mere.  Naturally,  I  told  myself,  he  couldn't  take  all- 


CATASTROPHE  73 

day  motor  trips  with  me.  I  was  convinced  that  my 
strength  lay  in  whatever  charm  I  possessed  for  him, 
and  I  had  no  intention  of  injuring  it  by  ill-timed  com- 
plaints. I  was  attractive,  alluring  to  him — more  so 
than  ever.  I  tried  to  be !  Oh,  I  tried  to  be  diplomatic, 
wise,  to  bide  my  time;  by  quiet  and  determined  en- 
durance to  withstand  the  siege  of  Mrs.  Sewall's  dis- 
approval; to  hold  her  son's  affection;  and  to  marry 
him  some  day,  with  her  sanction,  too,  just  exactly 
as  I  had  planned.  I  tried  and  I  failed. 

The  very  fact  that  I  could  hold  Breck's  affection 
hastened  my  defeat — that  and  my  lacerated  pride. 

I  met  him  one  day  when  I  was  out  walking  with 
Dandy,  not  far  from  the  very  spot  where  once  he 
had  begged  me  to  ride  with  him  in  his  automobile. 
Today  in  the  seat  beside  him,  which  had  been  of  late 
so  often  mine,  sat  Gale  Oliphant,  her  head  almost 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  Breck  leaning  toward  her 
laughing  as  they  sped  by. 

He  saw  me,  I  was  sure  he  saw  me,  but  he  did  not 
raise  his  hat.  His  signal  of  recognition  had  been 
without  Miss  Oliphant's  knowledge.  After  they  had 
passed  he  had  stretched  out  his  arm  as  a  sign  to  turn 
to  the  left,  and  had  waved  his  hand  without  looking 
around.  My  face  grew  scarlet.  What  had  I  be- 
come ?  Why,  I  might  have  been  a  picked-up  acquaint- 
ance, somebody  to  be  ashamed  of!  Ruth  Chenery 
Vars — where  had  disappeared  that  once  proud  and 
self-respecting  girl? 

Insignificant  as  the  event  really  was,  it  stood  as  a 


74  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

symbol  of  the  whole  miserable  situation  to  me.  It 
was  just  enough  to  startle  me  into  contempt  for  my- 
self. That  night  Breck  came  stealing  down  to  me 
along  the  dark  roads  in  his  quiet  car  about  eleven- 
thirty.  I  knew  he  had  been  to  the  Jackson  dinner 
and  was  surprised  to  find  he  had  changed  into  street 
clothes.  He  was  more  eager  than  ever  in  his  greeting. 

"Come  down  into  the  sunken  garden,"  he  pleaded. 
"I've  got  something  to  say  to  you." 

It  was  light  in  the  garden.  There  was  a  full  Sep- 
tember moon.  I  stood  beside  the  bird-bath  and  put 
a  forefinger  in  it.  I  could  hear  Breck  breathing  hard 
beside  me.  I  was  sure  he  had  broken  his  pledge  and 
had  been  drinking. 

"Well?"  I  said  at  last,  calmly,  looking  up. 

He  answered  me  silently,  vehemently. 

"Don't,  please,  here.  It's  so  fearfully  light.  Don't, 
Breck,"  I  said. 

"I've  got  the  car,"  he  whispered.  "It  will  take  us 
two  hours.  I've  got  it  all  planned.  It's  a  peach  of  a 
night.  You've  got  to  come.  I'm  not  for  waiting 
any  longer.  You've  got  to  marry  me  tonight,  you 
little  fish !  I'll  wake  you  up.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  To- 
night in  two  hours.  I'm  not  going  to  hang  around 
any  longer.  You've  got  to  come !" 

I  managed  to  struggle  away. 

"Don't  talk  like  that  to  me.  It's  insulting !  Don't !" 
I  said. 

"Insulting!  Say,  ring  off  on  that — will  you?  In- 
sulting to  ask  a  girl  to  marry  you !  Say,  that's  good ! 


CATASTROPHE  75 

Well,  insulting  or  not,  I've  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
hang  around  any  longer.  I'll  marry  you  tonight  or 
not  at  all!  You  needn't  be  afraid.  I've  got  it  all 
fixed  up — license  and  everything."  He  whipped  a 
paper  out  of  his  pocket.  "We'll  surprise  'em,  we  will 
— you  and  I.  I'm  mad  about  you,  and  always  have 
been.  The  mater — huh!  Be  a  shock  to  her — but 
she'll  survive." 

"I  wouldn't  elope  with  the  king  of  England!"  I 
said  hotly.  "What  do  you  think  I  am?  Understand 
this,  Breck.  I  require  all  the  honors  and  high  cere- 
monies that  exist." 

"Damn  it,"  he  said,  "you've  been  letting  me  come 
here  without  much  ceremony  every  night,  late,  on 
the  quiet.  What  have  you  got  to  say  to  that?  I'm 
tired  of  seeing  you  pose  on  that  high  horse  of  yours. 
Come  down.  You  know  as  well  as  I  you've  been  lead- 
ing me  along  as  hard  as  you  could  for  the  last  week. 
Good  Lord — what  for?  Say,  what's  the  game?  I 
don't  know.  But  listen — if  you  don't  marry  me  now, 
then  you  never  will.  There's  a  limit  to  a  man's  en- 
durance. Come,  come,  you  can't  do  better  for  your- 
self. You  aren't  so  much.  The  mater  will  never  come 
around.  She's  got  her  teeth  set.  The  car's  ready.  I 
shan't  come  again." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  I  said.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 
And  I  went  straight  into  the  house  and  upstairs  to 
my  room,  knelt  down  before  my  bureau  and  drew  out 
a  blue  velvet  box.  Breck's  ring  was  inside. 

Just  as  I  was  stealing  down  the  stairs  again,  ever- 


76  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

on-the-guard,  Edith  appeared  in  the  hall  in  her  night- 
dress. 

"What  are  you  after?"  she  asked. 

For  answer  I  held  out  the  box  toward  her.  She 
came  down  two  or  three  of  the  stairs. 

"What  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Give  it  back  to  Breck." 

She  grasped  my  wrist.  "You  little  fool!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"But  he  wants  me  to  run  off  with  him.  He  wants 
me  to  elope." 

"He  does!"  she  ejaculated,  her  eyes  large.  "Well?" 
she  inquired. 

I  stared  up  at  Edith  on  the  step  above  me  in  si- 
lence. 

"Well?"  she  repeated. 

"You  don't  mean "  I  began. 

"His  mother  is  sure  to  come  around  in  time.  They 
always  do.  My  mother  eloped,"  she  said. 

"Edith  Campbell  Vars,"  I  exclaimed,  "do  you  actu- 
ally mean "  I  stopped.  Even  in  the  dim  light 

of  the  hall  I  saw  her  flush  before  my  blank  astonish- 
ment. "Do  you  mean " 

"Well,  if  you  don't,"  she  interrupted  in  defense, 
"everybody  will  think  he  threw  you  over.  You'll 
simply  become  an  old  glove.  There's  not  much 
choice." 

"But  my  pride,  my  own  self-respect!  Edith  Vars, 
you'd  sell  your  soul  for  society;  and  you'd  sell  me 


CATASTROPHE  77 

too !  But  you  can't — you  can't !  Let  go  my  wrist.  I'm 
sick  of  the  whole  miserable  game.  I'm  sick  of  it.  Let 
me  go." 

"And  I'm  sick  of  it  too,"  flung  back  Edith.  "But 
I've  got  a  daughter's  future  to  think  about,  I'd  have 
you  know,  as  well  as  yours.  I've  worked  hard  to 
establish  ourselves  in  this  place,  and  I've  succeeded 
too.  And  now  you  come  along,  and  look  at  the  mess 
we're  in!  Humiliated!  Ignored!  Insulted!  It  isn't 
my  fault,  is  it?  If  I'd  paddled  my  own  canoe,  I'd 
be  all  right  today." 

"You  can  paddle  it  hereafter,"  I  flashed  out.  "I 
shan't  trouble  you  any  more." 

"Yes,  that's  pleasant,  after  you've  jabbed  it  full  of 
holes!" 

"Let  me  go,  Edith,"  I  said  and  pulled  away  my  wrist 
with  a  jerk. 

"Are  you  going  to  give  it  back  to  him?" 

"Yes,  I  am!"  I  retorted  and  fled  down  the  stairs, 
out  of  the  door,  across  the  porch,  and  into  the  moonlit 
garden  as  fast  as  I  could  go. 

"Here,  Breck — here's  your  ring!  Take  it.  You're 
free.  You  don't  need  to  hang  around,  as  you  say,  any 
more.  And  I'm  free,  too,  thank  heaven !  I  would  have 
borne  the  glory  and  the  honor  of  your  name  with 
pride.  Your  mother's  friendship  would  have  been 
a  happiness,  but  for  no  name,  and  for  no  woman's 
favor  will  I  descend  to  a  stolen  marriage.  You're 
mistaken  in  me.  Everybody  seems  to  be.  I'm  mis- 


78  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

taken  in  myself.  I  don't  want  to  marry  you  after 
all.  I  don't  love  you,  and  I  don't  want  to  marry  you. 
I'm  tired.  Please  go." 

He  stared  at  me.  "You  little  fool!"  he  exclaimed, 
just  like  Edith.  Then  he  slipped  the  box  into  his 
pocket,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  in  truly  chivalrous 
fashion  added,  "Don't  imagine  I'm  going  to  commit 
suicide  or  anything  tragic  like  that,  young  lady,  be- 
cause I'm  not." 

"I  didn't  imagine  it,"  I  replied. 
."I'm  going  to  marry  Gale  Oliphant,"  he  informed 
me  coolly.  "I'm  going  to  give  her  a  ring  in  a  little  box 
— and  she'll  wear  hers.  You'll  see."  He  produced  a 
cigarette  and  lit  it.  "She's  no  fish,"  he  added.  "She's 
a  pippin,  she  is.  Good  night,"  he  finished,  and  turned 
and  walked  out  of  the  garden. 

Three  days  later  I  went  away  from  Hilton.  Edith's 
tirades  became  unendurable.  I  didn't  want  even  to 
eat  her  food.  The  spinet  desk,  the  bureau,  the  chif- 
fonier, the  closet,  I  cleared  of  every  trace  of  me.  I 
stripped  the  bed  of  its  linen  and  left  the  mattress 
rolled  over  the  foot-board  in  eloquent  abandonment. 
The  waste-basket  bulged  with  discarded  odds  and 
ends.  One  had  only  to  look  into  that  room  to  feel 
convinced  that  its  occupant  had  disappeared,  like  a 
spirit  from  a  dead  body,  never  to  return. 

I  went  to  my  sister  Lucy's.  I  did  not  write  her.  I 
simply  took  a  morning  train  to  Boston  and  called  her 
up  on  the  'phone  in  her  not  far  distant  university 


CATASTROPHE  79 

town.  She  came  trotting  cheerfully  in  to  meet  me.  I 
told  her  my  news;  she  tenderly  gathered  what  was  left 
of  me  together,  and  carried  the  bits  out  here  to  her 
little  white  house  on  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  X 

A   UNIVERSITY   TOWN 

1DID  not  think  I  would  be  seated  here  on  my  rustic 
bench  writing  so  soon  again.  I  finished  the  his- 
tory of  my  catastrophe  a  week  ago.  But  something 
almost  pleasant  has  occurred,  and  I'd  like  to  try  my 
pencil  at  recording  a  pleasant  story.  Scarcely  a  story 
yet,  though.  Just  a  bit  of  a  conversation — that's  all 
— fragmentary.  It  refers  to  this  very  bench  where  I 
am  sitting  as  I  write,  to  the  hills  I  am  seeing  out  be- 
yond the  little  maple  tree  stripped  now  of  all  its 
glory.  I  cannot  see  a  dash  of  color  anywhere.  The 
world  is  brown.  The  sky  is  gray.  It  is  rather  chilly 
for  writing  out-of-doors. 

The  conversation  I  refer  to  began  in  an  ugly  little 
room  in  a  professor's  house.  There  was  a  roll-top 
desk  in  the  room,  and  a  map,  yellow  with  age,  hanging 
on  the  wall.  The  conversation  ended  underneath  a 
lamp-post  on  a  street  curbing,  and  it  was  rainy  and 
dark  and  cold.  And  yet  when  I  think  of  that  con- 
versation, sitting  here  in  the  brown  chill  dusk,  I  see 
color,  I  feel  warmth. 

When  I  first  came  here  to  Lucy's  three  weeks  ago, 
she  assumed  that  I  was  suffering  from  a  broken  heart. 

80 


A  UNIVERSITY  TOWN  81 

I  had  been  exposed  and  showed  symptoms — going  off 
alone  for  long  walks  and_  consuming  reams  of  theme 
paper  as  if  I  was  half  mad.  I  told  Lucy  that  my 
heart  was  too  hard  to  break,  but  I  couldn't  convince 
her.  There  wasn't  a  day  passed  but  that  she  planned 
some  form  of  amusement  or  diversion.  Even  Will, 
her  husband,  cooperated  and  spent  long  evenings  play- 
ing rum  or  three-handed  auction,  so  I  might  not  sit 
idle.  I  tried  to  fall  in  with  Lucy's  plans. 

"But,  please,  no  men!  I  don't  want  to  see  another 
man  for  years.  If  any  man  I  know  finds  out  I'm 
here,  tell  him  I  won't  see  him,  absolutely,"  I  warned. 
"I  want  to  be  alone.  I  want  to  think  things  out  un- 
disturbed. Sometimes  I  almost  wish  I  could  enter  a 
convent." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!"  Lucy  would  exclaim. 

"You  needn't  be.  You  didn't  break  my  engagement 
For  heaven's  sake,  Lucy,  you  needn't  take  it  so  hard." 

But  she  did.  She  simply  brooded  over  me.  She 
read  to  me,  smiled  for  me,  and  initiated  every  sally 
that  I  made  into  public.  In  conversation  she  picked 
her  way  with  me  with  the  precaution  of  a  cat  walking 
across  a  table  covered  with  delicate  china.  She  made 
wide  detours  to  avoid  a  reference  or  remark  that  might 
reflect  upon  my  engagement.  Will  did  likewise.  I 
lived  in  daily  surprise  and  wonder.  As  a  family  we  are 
brutally  frank.  This  was  a  new  phase,  and  one  of 
the  indirect  results,  I  suppose,  of  my  broken  engage- 
ment. 

What  I  am  trying  to  arrive  at  is  the  change  of  atti- 


82  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

tude  in  me  toward  Lucy.  Usually  when  I  visit  Lucy 
I  do  just  about  as  I  please;  refuse  to  attend  a  lot  of 
stupid  student-teas  and  brain-fagging  lectures,  or  to 
exert  myself  to  appear  engrossed  in  the  conversation 
of  her  intellectual  dinner  guests. 

I  used  to  scorn  Lucy's  dinners.  They  are  very 
different  from  Edith's,  where,  when  the  last  guest  in 
her  stunning  new  gown  has  arrived  and  swept  into 
the  drawing-room,  followed  by  her  husband,  a  maid 
enters,  balancing  on  her  tray  a  dozen  little  glasses, 
amber  filled;  everybody  takes  one,  daintily,  between 
a  thumb  and  forefinger  and  drains  it;  puts  it  non- 
chalantly aside  on  shelf  or  table;  offers  or  accepts  an 
arm  and  floats  toward  the  dining-room.  At  Edith's 
dinners  the  table  is  long,  flower-laden,  candle-lighted. 
Your  partner's  face  smiles  at  you  dimly.  His  voice 
is  almost  drowned  by  the  chatter  and  the  laughter  all 
about,  but  you  hear  him — just  barely — and  you  laugh 
— he  is  immensely  droll — and  then  reply.  And  he 
laughs,  too,  contagiously,  and  you  know  that  you  are 
going  to  get  on! 

Incidentally  at  Edith's  dinners  silent-footed  serv- 
ants pass  you  things;  you  take  them;  you  eat  a  little, 
too — delicious  morsels  if  you  stopped  to  consider 
them;  but  you  and  your  partner  are  having  far  too 
good  a  time  (he  is  actually  audacious,  and  so,  if  you 
please,  are  you)  to  bother  about  the  food. 

There's  a  little  group  of  glasses  beside  your  water, 
and  once  in  a  while  there  appears  in  your  field  of 
vision  a  hand  grasping  a  white  napkin  folded  like  a 


A  UNIVERSITY  TOWN  83 

cornucopia,  out  of  which  flows  delicious  nectar.  You 
sip  a  little  of  it  occasionally,  a  very  little — you  are 
careful  of  course — and  waves  of  elation  sweep  over 
you  because  you  are  alive  and  happy  and  good  to  look 
upon;  waves  of  keen  delight  that  such  a  big  and  splen- 
did life  (there  are  orchids  in  the  center  of  the  table, 
there  are  pearls  and  diamonds  everywhere) — that 
such  a  life  as  this  is  yours  to  grasp  and  to  enjoy. 

At  Lucy's  dinners  the  women  do  not  wear  dia- 
monds and  pearls.  Lucy  seldom  entertains  more  than 
six  at  a  time.  "Shall  we  go  out?"  she  says  when  her 
Delia  mumbles  something  from  the  door.  You  strag- 
gle across  the  hall  into  the  dining-room,  where  thir- 
teen carnations — you  count  them  later,  there's  time 
enough — where  thirteen  stiff  carnations  are  doing  duty 
in  the  center  of  the  prim  table.  At  each  place  there 
is  a  soup  plate  sending  forth  a  cloud  of  steam.  You 
wait  until  Lucy  points  out  your  place  to  you,  and  then 
sit  down  at  last.  There  is  a  terrible  pause — you  won- 
der if  they  say  grace — and  then  finally  Lucy  picks 
up  her  soup-spoon  for  signal  and  you're  off!  The 
conversation  is  general.  That  is  because  Lucy's  guests 
are  usually  intellectuals,  and  whatever  any  one  of  them 
says  is  supposed  to  be  so  important  that  every  one 
else  must  keep  still  and  listen.  You  can't  help  but 
notice  the  food,  because  there's  nothing  to  soften  the 
effect  of  it  upon  your  nerves,  as  it  were.  There  are 
usually  four  courses,  with  chicken  or  ducks  for  the 
main  dish,  accompanied  by  potatoes  cut  in  balls,  the 
invariable  rubber  stamp  of  a  party  at  Lucy's.  After- 


84  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

ward  there's  coffee  in  the  living-room,  and  you  feel 
fearfully  discouraged  when  you  look  at  the  clock  and 
find  it's  only  eight-thirty.  You're  surprised  after  the 
guests  have  gone  to  find  that  Lucy  considers  her  party 
a  success. 

"Why,"  she  exclaims,  cheeks  aglow,  "Dr.  Van 
Breeze  gave  us  the  entire  resume  of  his  new  book.  He 
seldom  thinks  anybody  clever  enough  to  talk  to.  It 
was  a  perfect  combination !" 

As  I  said,  I  usually  visit  Lucy  in  rather  a  critical 
state  of  mind  and  hold  myself  aloof  from  her  learned 
old  doctors  and  professors.  On  this  visit,  though,  she 
is  so  obviously  careful  of  me  and  my  feelings,  that  I 
find  myself  going  out  of  my  way  to  consider  hers  a 
little.  One  day  last  week  when  she  so  brightly  sug- 
gested that  we  go  to  a  tea  given  by  the  wife  of  a  mem- 
ber of  the  faculty,  instead  of  exclaiming,  "Oh,  dear! 
it  would  bore  me  to  extinction,"  I  replied  sweetly,  "All 
right,  if  you  want  to,  I'll  go." 

I  wasn't  feeling  happy.  I  didn't  want  to  go.  I  had 
been  roaming  the  woods  and  country  roads  round 
about  for  a  month  in  search  of  an  excuse  for  existence. 
I  had  been  autobiographing  for  days  in  the  faint 
hope  that  I  might  run  across  something  worth  while 
in  my  life.  But  no.  It  was  hopeless.  I  had  lost  all 
initiative.  I  couldn't  see  what  reason  there  was  for 
me  to  eat  three  meals  a  day.  It  seemed  as  foolish  as 
stoking  the  furnaces  of  an  ocean  liner  when  it  is  in 
port.  In  such  a  mood,  and  through  the  drifting  mist 
of  a  complaining  October  afternoon,  in  rubbers  and  a 


A  UNIVERSITY  TOWN  85 

raincoat,  I  started  out  with  Lucy  for  her  afternoon  tea. 

The  other  guests  wore  raincoats,  too — we  met  a  few 
on  the  way — with  dull-colored  suits  underneath,  and 
tailored  hats.  There  wasn't  a  single  bright,  frivolous 
thing  about  that  tea.  Even  the  house  was  dismal — 
rows  of  black  walnut  bookcases  with  busts  of  great 
men  on  top,  steel  engravings  framed  in  oak  on  the 
walls,  and  a  Boston  fern  or  two  in  red  pots  sitting 
about  on  plates.  When  I  looked  up  from  my  weak 
tea,  served  in  a  common  stock-pattern  willow  cup,  and 
saw  Lucy  sparkling  with  pleasure,  talking  away  for 
dear  life  with  a  white-haired  old  man  who  wore  a 
string  tie  and  had  had  two  fingers  shot  off  in  the  Civil 
War  (I  always  hated  to  shake  hands  with  him)  a  wave 
of  intolerance  for  age  and  learning  swept  over  me.  I 
told  Lucy  if  she  didn't  mind  I'd  run  along  home,  and 
stepped  across  the  hall  into  a  little  stupid  room  with  a 
roll-top  desk  in  it,  where  we  had  left  our  raincoats 
and  rubbers.  I  put  on  my  things  and  then  stood  star- 
ing a  moment  at  a  picture  on  the  wall.  I  didn't  know 
what  the  picture  was.  I  simply  looked  at  it  blindly 
while  I  fought  a  sudden  desire  to  cry.  I  hadn't  wept 
before.  But  this  dreadful  house,  these  dry,  drab  peo- 
ple were  such  a  contrast  to  my  all-but-realized  ambi- 
tions that  it  brought  bitter  tears  to  my  eyes.  Life  at 
Grassmere — that  was  living!  This  was  mere  exist- 
ence. 

Just  as  I  was  groping  for  a  handkerchief  some  little 
fool  of  a  woman  exclaimed,  "Oh,  there  she  is — in  the 
study!  I  thought  she  hadn't  gone.  O  Miss  Vars, 


86  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

there's  somebody  I  want  you  to  meet,  and  meet  you. 
Here  she  is,  Mr.  Jennings.  Come  in.  Miss  Vars,"  I 
was  still  facing  the  wall,  "Miss  Vars,  I  want  to  intro- 
duce Mr.  Jennings."  I  turned  finally,  and  as  I  did  so 
she  added,  "Now,  I  must  go  back  to  Dr.  Fuller.  I  was 
afraid  you'd  gone,"  and  out  she  darted.  I  could  have 
shot  her. 

Mr.  Jennings  came  straight  across  the  room. 
Through  a  blur  I  caught  an  impression  of  height, 
breadth  and  energy.  His  sudden  hand-grasp  was  firm 
and  decisive.  "How  do  you  do?"  he  said,  and  then 
abruptly  observed  my  tears. 

"You've  caught  me  with  my  sails  all  down,"  I  ex- 
plained. 

"Have  I?"  he  replied  pleasantly.  "Well,  I  like  sails 
down." 

"Please  do  not  think,"  I  continued,  "that  I  am  often 
guilty  of  such  a  thing  as  this.  I'm  not.  Who  was 
that  woman  anyhow?" 

"Oh,  don't  blame  her,"  he  laughed,  and  he  stepped 
forward  to  look  at  the  picture  which  I  had  been  star- 
ing at.  I  was  busy  putting  away  my  handkerchief. 
"Who  was  that  woman?"  Mr.  Jennings  repeated, 
abruptly  turning  away  from  the  picture  back  to  me, 
"Who  was  she?  I'll  tell  you  who  she  was — a  good 
angel.  Why,"  he  went  on,  "I'd  got  into  the  way  of 
thinking  that  sympathy  as  expressed  by  tears  had 
gone  out  of  style  with  the  modern  girl.  They  never 
shed  any  at  the  theater  nowadays,  I  notice.  I'm  glad 
to  know  there  is  one  who  hasn't  forgotten  how." 


A  UNIVERSITY  TOWN  87 

I  stepped  forward  then  to  find  out  what  manner  of 
picture  it  was  to  cause  such  a  tribute  to  be  paid  me. 
It  was  called  "The  Doctor."  A  crude  bare  room  was 
depicted.  The  light  from  a  lamp  on  an  old  kitchen 
table  threw  its  rays  on  the  turned-aside  face  of  a  little 
girl,  who  lay  asleep — or  unconscious — on  an  impro- 
vised bed  made  of  two  chairs  drawn  together.  Beyond 
the  narrow  confines  of  the  cot  the  little  girl's  hand  ex- 
tended, wistfully  upturned.  Seated  beside  her,  watch- 
ing, sat  the  big  kind  doctor.  Anxiety,  doubt  were  in 
his  intelligent  face.  Near  an  east  window,  through 
which  a  streak  of  dawn  was  creeping,  sat  a  woman, 
her  face  buried  in  the  curve  of  her  arms  folded  on  the 
table.  Beside  her  stood  a  bearded  man,  brow  fur- 
rowed, his  pleading  eyes  upon  the  doctor,  while  his 
hand,  big,  comforting,  rested  on  the  woman's  bowed 
shoulders.  A  cup  with  a  spoon  in  it,  a  collection  of 
bottles  near-by — all  the  poor,  human,  useless  tools  of 
defense  were  there,  eloquent  of  a  long  and  losing 
struggle.  Every  one  who  recalls  the  familiar  picture 
knows  what  a  dreary,  hopeless  scene  it  is — the  room 
stamped  with  poverty,  the  window  stark  and  curtain- 
less,  the  woman  meagerly  clad,  the  man  bearing  the 
marks  of  hardship. 

Suddenly  in  the  face  of  all  that,  Mr.  Jennings  softly 
exclaimed,  "That's  living." 

Only  five  minutes  ago  I  had  said  the  same  thing  of 
life  at  Grassmere. 

"Is  it?"  I  replied.     "Is  that  living?    I've  been  won- 


88  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

dering  lately.  I  thought — I  thought — it's  so  poor  and 
sad!"  I  remonstrated. 

"Poor!  Oh,  no,  it's  rich,"  he  replied  quickly,  "rich 
in  everything  worth  while.  Anyhow,  only  lives  that 
are  vacuums  are  free  from  sadness." 

"Are  lives  that  are  vacuums  free  from  happiness, 
too?"  I  enquired. 

He  took  my  question  as  if  it  was  a  statement. 
"That's  true,  too,  I  suppose,"  he  agreed. 

"How  hopeless,"  I  murmured,  still  gazing  at  the 
picture,  but  in  reality  contemplating  my  own  empty 
life.  He  misunderstood. 

"See  here,"  he  said.  "I  believe  this  little  girl  here 
is  going  to  pull  through  after  all.  Don't  worry.  I 
insist  she  is.  That  artist  ought  to  paint  a  sequel — 
just  for  you,"  he  added,  and  abruptly  he  unfolded  his 
arms  and  looked  at  me  squarely  for  the  first  time.  "I 
didn't  in  the  least  get  your  name,"  he  broke  off.  "The 
good  angel  flew  away  so  soon." 

I  told  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Vars.  Thank  you.  Mine's  Jen- 
nings. People  mumble  names  so  in  introductions." 
He  glanced  around  at  the  piles  of  raincoats  and  racks 
of  umbrellas.  I  already  had  my  coat  on.  "You 
weren't  just  going,  were  you?"  he  inquired  brightly. 
"For  if  you  were,  so  was  I,  too.  Perhaps  you  will 
let  me  walk  along — unless  you're  riding." 

I  forgot  just  for  a  minute  that  I  didn't  want  to  see 
another  man  for  years  and  years.  He  wasn't  a  man 
just  then,  but  a  bright  and  colorful  illumination.  He 


A  UNIVERSITY  TOWN  89 

stood  before  me  full  of  life  and  vigor.  He  was  tall 
and  straight.  His  close-cropped  hair  shone  like  gold 
in  the  pale  gas-light,  and  there  was  a  tan  or  glow 
upon  his  face  that  made  me  think  of  out-of-doors. 
His  smile,  his  straightforward  gaze,  his  crisp  voice, 
had  brightened  that  dull  little  room  for  me.  I  went 
with  him.  Of  course  I  did — out  into  the  rainy  dark- 
ness of  the  late  October  afternoon,  drawn  as  a  child 
towards  the  glow  of  red  fire. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    WALK    IN    THE    RAIN 

ONCE  on  the  sidewalk  Mr.  Jennings  said,  "I'm 
glad  to  know  your  name,  for  I  know  you  by 
sight  already.  Shall  we  have  any  umbrella?" 

"Let's  not,"  I  replied.  "I  like  the  mist.  But  how 
do  you  know  me  ?" 

"I  thought  you  would — like  the  mist,  I  mean — be- 
cause you  seem  to  like  my  woods  so  well." 

"Your  woods!    Why — what  woods?" 

"The  ones  you  walk  in  every  day,"  he  cheerfully 
replied;  "they're  mine.  I  discovered  them,  and  to 
whom  else  should  they  belong?" 

"I've  been  trespassing,  then." 

"Oh,  no!  I'm  delighted  to  lend  my  woods  to  you. 
If  you  wear  blinders  and  keep  your  eyes  straight  ahead 
and  stuff  your  ears  with  cotton  so  you  can't  hear  the 
trolleys,  you  can  almost  cheat  yourself  into  thinking 
they're  real  woods  with  a  mountain  to  climb  at  the  end 
of  them.  Do  you  like  that  little  rustic  seat  I  made 
beside  the  lake?" 

"Did  you  make  it?" 

"Yes,  Saturdays,  for  recreation  last  year.  I'm 
afraid  it  doesn't  fit  very  well."  He  smiled  from  out 

90 


A  WALK  IN  THE  RAIN  91 

of  the  light  of  a  sudden  lamp-post.  "You'll  find,  a 
birch  footstool  some  day  pretty  soon.  I  noticed  your 
feet  didn't  reach.  By  the  way,"  he  broke  off,  "pardon 
me  for  quoting  from  you,  but  /  don't  think  back-season 
debutantes  are  like  out-of -demand  best-sellers — not  all 
of  them.  Anyhow,  all  best-sellers  do  not  deteriorate. 
And  tell  me,  is  this  chap  with  the  deep-purring  car  the 
villain  or  the  hero  in  your  novel — the  dark  one  with 
the  hair  blown  straight  back?" 

I  almost  stopped  in  my  amazement.  He  was  quot- 
ing from  my  life  history. 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  began.  I  could  feel  the 
color  in  my  cheeks.  "I  dislike  mystery.  Tell  me. 
Please.  How  did  you — I  dislike  mystery,"  I  repeated. 

"Are  you  angry?  It's  so  dark  I  can't  see.  Don't 
be  angry.  It  was  written  on  theme  paper,  in  pencil, 
and  in  a  university  town  theme  paper  is  public  prop- 
erty. I  found  them  there  one  day — just  two  loose 
leaves  behind  the  seat — and  I  read  them.  Afterwards 
I  saw  you — not  until  afterwards,"  he  assured  me, 
"writing  there  every  day.  I  asked  to  be  introduced 
to  you  when  I  saw  you  tucked  away  in  a  corner  there 
this  afternoon  drinking  tea  behind  a  fern,  so  that  I 
could  return  your  property." 

"Oh,  you've  kept  the  leaves!  Where  are  they?"  I 
demanded. 

"Right  here.  Wait  a  minute."  And  underneath  an 
arc-light  we  stopped,  and  from  out  of  his  breast- 
pocket  this  surprising  man  drew  a  leather  case,  and 
from  out  of  that  two  crumpled  pages  of  my  life.  "If 


92  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

any  one  should  ask  me  to  guess,"  he  went  on,  "I  should 
say  that  the  author  of  these  fragments  is  a  student  at 
Shirley"  (the  girls'  college  connected  with  the  Univer- 
sity) "and  that  she  had  strolled  out  to  my  woods  for 
inspiration  to  write  a  story  for  an  English  course.  Am 
I  right?"  He  passed  me  the  leaves.  "It  sounds 
promising,"  he  added,  "the  story,  I  mean." 

I  took  the  leaves  and  glanced  through  them.  There 
wasn't  a  name  mentioned  on  either.  "A  student  at 
Shirley !"  I  exclaimed.  "How  perfectly  ridiculous !  A 
school  girl !  Well,  how  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?"  and 
out  of  sheer  relief  I  rippled  into  a  laugh. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied.  "How  old  are  you?" 
And  he  laughed,  too.  The  sound  of  our  merriment 
mixing  so  rhythmically  was  music  to  my  ears.  I 
thought  I  had  forgotten  how  to  be  foolish,  and  incon- 
sequential. 

"I  don't  know  why  it  strikes  me  so  funny,"  I  tried 
to  explain — for  really  I  felt  fairly  elated — "I  don't 
know  why,  but  a  story  for  an  English  course !  A  col- 
lege girl!"  And  I  burst  into  peals  of  mirth. 

"That's  right.  Go  ahead.  I  deserve  it,"  urged  Mr. 
Jennings  self-depreciatively.  "How  I  blunder!  Any- 
how I've  found  you  can  laugh  as  well  as  cry,  and  that's 
something.  Perhaps  now,"  he  continued,  "seeing  I'm 
such  a  failure  as  a  Sherlock  Holmes,  you  will  be  so 
kind  as  to  tell  me  yourself  who  you  are.  Do  you  live 
here?  I  never  saw  you  before.  I'm  sure  you're  a 
stranger.  Where  is  your  home,  Miss  Vars?" 

"Where  is  my  home?"  I  repeated,  and  then  paused 


A  WALK  IN  THE  RAIN  93 

an  instant.  Where  indeed?  "A  wardrobe-trunk  is 
my  home,  Mr.  Jennings,"  I  replied. 

"Oh !"  he  took  it  up.  "A  wardrobe-trunk.  Rather 
a  small  house  for  you  to  develop  your  individuality 
in,  very  freely,  I  should  say!" 

"Yes,  but  at  least  nothing  hangs  within  its  walls 
but  of  my  own  choosing." 

"And  it's  convenient  for  house-cleaning,  too,"  he 
followed  it  up.  "But  see  here,  is  there  room  for  two 
in  it,  because  I  was  just  going  to  ask  to  call" 

"I  usually  entertain  my  callers  in  the  garden,"  I 
primly  announced. 

"How  delightful!  I  much  prefer  gardens."  And 
we  laughed  again.  "Which  way?"  he  abruptly  in- 
quired. "Which  way  to  your  garden,  please?"  We 
had  come  to  a  crossing.  I  stopped,  and  he  beside  me. 

"Why,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know !"  Nothing  about  me 
looked  familiar.  "These  winding  streets  of  yours! 
I'm  afraid  I'm  lost,"  I  confessed.  "You'll  have  to  put 
me  on  a  car — a  Greene  Hill  Avenue  car.  I  know  my 
way  alone  then.  At  least  I  believe  it's  a  Greene  Hill 
Avenue  car.  They've  just  moved  there — my  sister. 
Perhaps  you  know  her — Mrs.  William  Maynard." 

"Lucy  Maynard!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  should  say  I 
did!  Are  you — why,  are  you  her  sister?" 

He  had  heard  about  me  then!  Of  course.  How 
cruel ! 

"Yes.     Why?"    I  managed  to  inquire. 

"Oh,  nothing.  Only  I've  met  you,"  he  brought  out 
triumphantly.  "I  met  you  at  dinner,  two  or  three 


94  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

years  ago — at  your  sister's  house.  We're  old  friends," 
he  said. 

"Are  we?"  I  asked  in  wonder.  "Are  we  old 
friends?"  I  wanted  to  add,  "How  nice!" 

He  looked  so  steady  and  substantial,  standing  there 
— so  kind  and  understanding.  Any  one  would  prize 
him  for  an  old  friend.  I  gazed  up  at  him.  The  drift- 
ing mist  had  covered  his  broad  chest  and  shoulders 
with  a  glistening  veil  of  white.  It  shone  like  frost  on 
the  nap  of  his  soft  felt  hat.  It  sparkled  on  his  eye- 
brows and  the  lashes  of  his  fine  eyes.  "How  nice,"  I 
wanted  to  add.  But  a  desire  not  to  flirt  with  this  man 
honestly  possessed  me.  Besides  I  must  remember  I 
was  tired  of  men.  I  wanted  nothing  of  any  of  them. 
So  instead  I  said,  "Well,  then,  you  know  what  car  I 
need  to  take." 

He  ignored  my  remark. 

"You  had  on  a  yellow  dress — let's  walk  along — and 
wore  purple  pansies,  fresh  ones,  although  it  was  mid- 
winter. I  remember  it  distinctly.  But  a  hat  and  a 
raincoat  today  make  you  look  different,  and  I 
couldn't  get  near  enough  to  you  in  the  woods.  I  re- 
member there  was  a  medical  friend  of  your  sister's 
husband  there  that  night,  and  Will  and  he  monopo- 
lized the  conversation.  I  hardly  spoke  to  you ;  but  tell 
me,  didn't  you  wear  pansies  with  a  yellow  dress  one 
night  at  your  sister's?" 

"Jennings?  Are  you  Bob  Jennings ?"  (Lucy's  Bob 
Jennings!  I  remembered  now — a  teacher  of  English 
at  the  University.)  "Of  course,"  I  exclaimed,  "I 


A  WALK  IN  THE  RAIN  95 

recall  you  now.  I  remember  that  night  perfectly. 
When  you  came  into  my  sister's  living-room,  looking 
so — so  unprofessor-like — I  thought  to  myself,  'How 
nice  for  me;  Professor  Jennings  couldn't  come;  she's 
got  one  of  the  students  to  take  his  place — some  one 
nice  and  easy  and  my  size.'  I  wondered  if  you  were 
on  the  football  team  or  crew,  and  it  crossed  my  mind 
what  a  perfect  shame  it  was  to  drag  a  man  like  you 
away  from  a  dance  in  town,  perhaps,  to  a  stupid  dinner 
with  one  of  the  faculty.  And  then  you  began  to  talk 
with  Will  about — what  was  it — Chaucer?  Anyhow 
something  terrifying,  and  I  knew  then  that  you  were 
Professor  Jennings  after  all." 

"Oh,  but  I  wasn't.  I  was  just  an  assistant.  I'm 
not  a  professor  even  yet.  Never  shall  be  either — the 
gods  willing.  I'm  trying  hard  to  be  a  lawyer.  Cir- 
cuitous route,  I  confess.  But  you  know  automobile 
guide-books  often  advise  the  longer  and  smoother 
road.  Do  you  mind  walking?  It  isn't  far,  and  the 
cars  are  crowded." 

We  walked. 

"I  suppose,"  I  remarked  a  little  later,  "trying  hard 
to  become  a  lawyer  is  what  keeps  your  life  from  being 
a  vacuum." 

"Yes,  that,  and  a  little  white-haired  lady  I  call  my 
mother,"  he  added  gallantly. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  what  keeps  my  life  from 
being  a  vacuum?"  I  abruptly  asked. 

"Of  course  I  do!" 


96  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Well,  then — a  little  brown  Boston  terrier  whom  I 
call  Dandy,"  I  announced. 

He  laughed  as  if  it  was  a  joke.  "What  nonsense! 
Your  sister  has  told  me  quite  a  lot  about  you,  Miss 
Vars,  one  time  and  another;  that  you  write  verse  a 
little,  for  instance.  Any  one  who  can  create  is  able 
to  fill  all  the  empty  corners  of  his  life.  You  know  that 
as  well  as  I  do." 

I  considered  this  new  idea  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
We  turned  in  at  Lucy's  street. 

"How  long  shall  you  be  here,  Miss  Vars?"  asked 
Mr.  Jennings.  "And,  seriously,  may  I  call  some  even- 
ing?" 

How  could  I  refuse  such  a  friendly  and  straight- 
forward request? 

•  "Why,  yes,"  I  heard  myself  saying,  man  though 
he  was,  "I  suppose  so.    I  should  be  glad,  only " 

"Only  what?" 

"Only — well "     We   were  at  Lucy's   gate.     I 

stopped  beneath  the  lamp-post.     "I  don't  believe  my 
sister  has  told  you  all  about  me,  Mr.  Jennings." 

"Of  course  not!"  He  laughed.  "I  don't  want  her 
to.  I  don't  want  to  know  all  that's  in  a  new  book  I 
am  about  to  read.  It's  pleasanter  to  discover  the  de- 
lights myself." 

I  felt  conscience-stricken.  There  were  no  delights 
left  in  me.  I  ought  to  tell  him.  However,  all  I  re- 
plied was,  "How  nicely  you  put  things!" 

And  he:    "Do  I?    Well — when  may  I  come?" 

"Why — any  night.      Only  I'm   not   a  very  bright 


A  WALK  IN  THE  RAIN  97 

book — rather  dreary.  Truly.  I  warn  you.  You 
found  me  in  tears,  remember." 

"Don't  think  again  about  that,"  he  said  to  me. 
"Please.  Listen.  I  always  try  to  take  home  to  the 
little  white-haired  lady  something  pleasant  every  night 
— a  rose  or  a  couple  of  pinks,  or  an  incident  of  some 
sort  to  please  her,  never  anything  dreary.  You,  look- 
ing at  the  picture  of  the  little  sick  girl,  are  to  be  the 
gift  tonight."  And  then  suddenly  embarrassed,  he 
added  hastily,  "I'm  afraid  you're  awfully  wet.  I 
ought  to  be  shot.  Perhaps  you  preferred  to  ride. 
You're  covered  with  mist.  And  perhaps  it's  spoiled 
something."  He  glanced  at  my  hat. 

"No,  it  hasn't,"  I  assured  him,  "and  good  night. 
I  can  get  in  all  right." 

"Oh,  let  me " 

"No,  please,"  I  insisted. 

"Very  well,"  he  acquiesced.  And  I  gave  him  my 
hand  and  sped  up  the  walk. 

He  waited  until  the  door  was  opened  to  me,  and 
then,  "Good  night,"  came  his  clear,  pleasant  voice  to 
me  from  out  of  the  rainy  dark. 

I  went  straight  upstairs  to  my  room.  I  felt  as  if 
I  had  just  drunk  long  and  deep  of  pure  cold  water. 
Tired  and  travel-worn  I  had  been,  uncertain  of  my 
way,  disheartened,  spent;  and  then  suddenly  across 
my  path  had  appeared  an  unexpected  brook,  crystal 
clear,  soul-refreshing.  I  had  rested  by  it  a  moment, 
listened  to  its  cheerful  murmur,  lifted  up  a  little  of  its 
coolness  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,  and  drunk.  I 


98  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

went  up  to  my  room  with  a  lighter  heart  than  I  had 
known  for  months,  walked  over  to  the  window,  raised 
it,  and  let  in  a  little  of  the  precious  mistiness  that  had 
enshrouded  me  for  the  last  half  hour. 

Standing  there  looking  out  into  the  darkness,  I  was 
interrupted  by  a  knock  on  my  door. 

"I  was  just  turning  down  the  beds,  Miss,"  explained 
Lucy's  Delia,  "and  so  brought  up  your  letter."  And 
she  passed  me  the  missive  I  had  not  noticed  on  the 
table  as  I  came  in,  so  blind  a  cheerful  "good  night" 
called  from  out  of  the  rain  had  made  me. 

"A  letter?  Thank  you,  Delia.  Isn't  it  rainy!"  I 
added  impulsively. 

"It  is,  Miss.    It  is  indeed,  Miss  Ruth !" 

"Come,"  I  went  on,  "let  me  help  you  turn  down 
the  beds.  I  haven't  another  thing  to  do."  The  letter 
could  wait.  Benevolence  possessed  my  soul. 

Later  alone  in  my  room  I  opened  my  note.  It  was 
from  Edith.  I  had  recognized  her  handwriting  in- 
stantly. She  seldom  harbors  ill-feeling  for  any  length 
of  time. 

"Three  cheers!"  the  letter  jubilantly  began.  "Run 
up  a  flag.  We  win!"  it  shouted.  "Prepare  yourself, 
Toots.  We  have  been  bidden  to  Grassmere!  Also  I 
have  received  a  personal  note  from  the  great  Mogul 
herself.  You  were  right,  I  guess,  as  always.  Let's 
forgive  and  forget.  Mrs.  Sewall  writes  to  know  if 
we  will  honor  her  by  our  presence  at  a  luncheon  at 
Grassmere.  What  do  you  say  to  that?  With  pleas- 
ure, kind  lady,  say  I!  I  enclose  your  invitation. 


A  WALK  IN  THE  RAIN  99 

You'll  be  ravishing  in  a  new  gown  which  I  want  you 
to  go  right  in  and  order  at  Madame's — on  me,  under- 
stand, dearie.  I'm  going  to  blow  myself  to  a  new 
one,  too.  Won't  the  girls  be  surprised  when  they  hear 
of  this?  The  joke  will  be  on  them,  I'm  thinking. 
Probably  you  and  Breck  will  be  patching  up  your  little 
difference,  too.  I  don't  pretend  to  fathom  Mrs.  S.'s 
change  of  front,  but  it's  changed  anyhow !  That's  all 
I  care  about.  Good-by.  Must  hurry  to  catch  mail. 
Hustle  home,  rascal.  Love,  Edith." 

Two  weeks  later  on  the  morning  after  the  luncheon, 
to  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  I  sent  my  immediate 
regrets,  the  morning  paper  could  not  be  found  at 
Lucy's  house.  Will  went  off  to  the  University  berat- 
ing the  paper-boy  soundly.  After  I  had  finished  my 
coffee  and  toast  and  moved  over  to  the  front  window, 
Lucy  opened  the  wood-box. 

"I  stuffed  it  in  here,"  she  said,  "just  as  you  and 
Will  were  coming  downstairs.  I  thought  you'd  rather 
see  it  first."  And  she  put  the  lost  paper  into  my 
hands  and  left  me. 

On  the  front  page  there  appeared  the  following  an- 
nouncement : 

"Breckenridge  Sewall  Engaged  to  be  Married  to 
Miss  Gale  Oliphant  of  New  York  and  Newport.  An- 
nouncement of  Engagement  Occasion  for  Brilliant 
Luncheon  Given  by  Mrs.  F.  Rockridge  Sewall  at  her 
Beautiful  Estate  in  Hilton.  Wedding  Set  for  Early 
December." 

I  read  the  announcement  two  or  three  times,  and 


ioo  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

afterward  the  fine  print  below,  containing  a  long  list 
of  the  luncheon  guests  with  Edith's  name  proudly  in 
its  midst.  The  scene  of  my  shame  and  the  actors 
flashed  before  me.  Ignominy  and  defeat  were  no  part 
of  the  new  creature  I  had  become  since  Lucy's  tea.  I 
read  the  announcement  again.  It  was  as  if  a  dark 
cloud  passed  high  over  my  head  and  cast  a  shadow  on 
the  sparkling  beauty  of  the  brook  beside  which  I  had 
been  lingering  for  nearly  two  weeks. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A   DINNER   PARTY 

ROBERT  JENNINGS  sees  the  plainest  and  com- 
monest things  of  life  through  the  eyes  of  an 
artist.  He  never  goes  anywhere  without  a  volume  of 
poetry  stuffed  into  his  pocket,  and  if  he  runs  across 
anything  that  no  one  else  has  endowed  with  beauty, 
then  straightway  he  will  endow  it  himself.  Crowded 
trolleys,  railroad  stations,  a  muddy  road — all  have 
some  hidden  appeal.  Even  greed  and  discord  he  man- 
ages to  ignore  as  such  by  looking  beneath  their  ex- 
teriors for  hidden  significance.  The  simpler  a  pleas- 
ure, the  greater  to  him  its  joy. 

He  is  tall,  broad;  of  light  complexion;  vigorous  in 
every  movement  that  he  makes.  Upon  his  face  there 
is  a  perpetual  glow,  whether  due  to  mere  color,  or  to 
expression,  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind.  He  enters 
the  house  and  brings  with  him  a  feeling  of  out-of- 
doors.  His  smile  is  like  sunshine  on  white  snow,  his 
seriousness  like  a  quiet  pool  hidden  among  trees,  his 
enthusiasm  like  mad  whitecaps  on  a  lake  stirred  by  a 
gale,  his  tenderness  like  the  kind  warmth  of  Indian 
summer  caressing  drooping  flowers.  I  have  never 
known  any  one  just  like  him  before.  Instead  of  in- 

101 


102  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

viting  me  in  town  to  luncheon  and  the  matinee,  or  to 
dinner  and  the  opera,  he  takes  me  out  with  him  to 
drink  draughts  of  cold  November  air,  and  to  share 
the  glory  of  an  autumn  sunset. 

The  first  time  he  called  he  mentioned  a  course  at 
Shirley  offered  to  special  students.  I  told  him  if  he 
would  use  his  influence  and  persuade  the  authorities 
to  accept  me,  I  believed  I  should  like  to  take  a  course 
in  college.  I  thought  it  would  help  to  kill  time  while 
I  was  making  up  my  mind  how  better  to  dispose  of 
myself.  I  have  therefore  become  what  Mr.  Jennings 
thought  I  was  in  the  beginning — a  student  at  Shirley ; 
not  a  full-fledged  one  but  a  "special"  in  English.  I 
attend  class  twice  a  week  and  in  between  times  write 
compositions  that  are  read  out  loud  in  class  and  criti- 
cized. Also  in  between  times  I  occasionally  see  Mr. 
Jennings. 

Last  week  each  member  of  the  class  was  required 
to  submit  an  original  sonnet.  Mine  is  not  finished  yet. 
I  am  trying  a  rhapsody  on  the  autumn  woods.  This  is 
the  way  I  work.  Pencil,  pad,  low  rocking-chair  by  the 
window.  First  line : 

"I  see  the  saffron  woods  of  yesterday!"  Then  fix- 
edly I  gaze  at  the  rubber  on  the  end  of  my  pencil.  "I 
see  the  saffron  woods  of  yesterday!"  (What  a  young 
god  he  looked  the  day  he  called  for  me  to  go  chest- 
nutting!  How  his  eyes  laughed  and  his  voice  sang, 
and  as  we  scuffled  noisily  through  the  leaf-strewn  for- 
est, how  his  long,  easy  stride  put  me  in  mind  of  the 
swinging  meter  of  Longfellow's  Hiawatha!) 


A  DINNER  PARTY  103 

"I  see  the  saffron  woods  of  yesterday!"  (I  see,  too, 
the  setting  sun  shining  on  the  yellow  leaves,  clinging 
frailly.  I  see  myself  standing  beneath  a  tree  holding 
up  an  overcoat — his  overcoat,  thrown  across  my  out- 
stretched arms  to  catch  the  pelting  burrs  that  he  is 
shaking  off.  I  see  his  eyes  looking  down  from  the 
tree  into  mine.  Later  as  we  lean  over  a  rock  to  crack 
open  the  prickly  burrs,  I  feel  our  shoulders  touch! 
Did  he  feel  them,  too,  I  wonder?  If  he  were  any 
other  man  I  would  say  that  he  meant  that  our  eyes 
should  meet  too  long,  our  shoulders  lean  too  near,  and 
our  silence,  as  we  walked  home  in  the  dark,  continue 
too  tense.  But  he  is  different.  He  is  not  a  lover.  He 
is  a  friend — a  comrade. )  "I  see  the  saffron  woods  of 
yesterday !" 

Abruptly  I  lay  aside  my  pad  and  pencil.  I  put  on 
my  coat  and  hat,  pull  on  my  gloves,  and  in  self-defense 
plunge  out  into  the  cold  November  afternoon.  I  avoid 
the  country,  and  try  to  keep  my  recreant  thoughts  on 
such  practical  subjects  as  trolley  cars,  motor-trucks 
and  delivery  wagons,  rumbling  noisily  beside  me  along 
the  street.  A  sudden  "To  Let"  card  appears  in  a  new 
apartment.  I  wonder  how  much  the  rent  is.  I  wonder 
how  much  the  salary  of  an  assistant  professor  is. 
Probably  something  under  five  thousand  a  year.  The 
income  from  the  investments  left  me  by  my  father 
amounts  to  almost  eight  hundred  dollars.  Clothes 
alone  cost  me  more  than  a  thousand.  Of  course  one 
wouldn't  need  so  many,  but  what  with  rent,  and  food, 
and  service,  and — what  am  I  thinking  of?  Why, 


104  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

I've  known  the  man  only  four  weeks,  and  considering 
my  recent  relations  with  Breckenridge  Sewall  such 
mad  air-castling  is  lacking  in  good  taste.  Besides,  a 
teacher — a  professor!  I've  always  scorned  professors. 
I  was  predestined  to  fill  a  high  and  influential  place.  A 
professor's  wife?  It  is  unthinkable!  And  then 
abruptly  appears  a  street  vender  beside  me.  I  smell 
his  roasting  chestnuts.  And  again — again,  "I  see  the 
saffron  woods  of  yesterday!" 

About  two  days  after  I  went  chestnutting  with  Mr. 
Jennings,  I  went  picnicking.  We  built  a  fire  in  the 
corner  of  two  stones  and  cooked  chops  and  bacon. 
Two  days  after  that  we  tramped  to  an  old  farm-house, 
five  miles  straight-away  north,  and  drank  sweet  cider 
— rather  warm — from  a  jelly  tumbler  with  a  rough 
rim.  Once  we  had  some  tea  and  thick  slabs  of  bread 
in  a  country  hotel  by  the  roadside.  Often  we  pillage 
orchards  for  apples.  Day  before  yesterday  we  stopped 
in  a  dismantled  vegetable  garden  and  pulled  a  raw 
turnip  from  out  of  the  frosty  ground.  Mr.  Jennings 
scraped  the  dirt  away  and  pared  off  a  little  morsel 
with  his  pocket  knife.  He  offered  it  to  me,  then  took 
a  piece  himself. 

"Same  old  taste,"  I  laughed. 

"Same  old  taste,"  he  laughed  back.  And  we  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  in  sympathetic  appreciation  of 
raw  turnip.  As  he  wiped  the  blade  of  his  knife  he 
added,  "If  I  didn't  know  it  wasn't  so,  I  would  swear 
we  played  together  as  children.  Most  young  ladies, 
of  this  age,  do  not  care  for  raw  turnips." 


A  DINNER  PARTY  105 

A  thrill  passed  through  me.  I  blessed  my  brothers 
who  had  enriched  my  childhood  with  the  lore  of  out- 
of-doors.  I  blessed  even  the  difficult  circumstances  of 
my  father's  finances,  which  had  forced  me  as  a  little 
girl  to  seek  my  pleasures  in  fields  and  woods  and 
tilled  gardens.  Had  I  once  said  that  my  nature  re- 
quired a  luxurious  environment?  I  had  been  mis- 
taken. I  gazed  upon  Robert  Jennings  standing  there 
before  me  in  the  forlorn  garden.  Bare  brown  hills 
were  his  background.  The  wind  swept  down  bleakly 
from  the  east,  bearing  with  it  the  dank  odor  of  frost- 
bitten cauliflower.  Swift,  sharp  memories  of  my 
childhood  swept  over  me.  Smothered  traditions 
stirred  in  my  heart.  All  the  young  sweet  impulses  of 
my  youth  took  sudden  possession  of  me,  and  through 
a  mist  that  blurred  my  eyes  I  recognized  with  a  little 
stab  in  my  breast — that  was  half  joy,  half  fear — I 
recognized  before  me  my  perfect  comrade! 

Last  night  Lucy  had  one  of  her  dinners  and  one  of 
the  men  invited  was  Robert  Jennings.  She  had  in- 
creased the  usual  number  of  six  to  eight.  "A  real 
party,"  she  explained  to  me,  "with  a  fish  course !" 

For  no  other  dinner  party  in  my  life  did  I  dress 
with  more  care  or  trembling  expectation.  Lucy's 
dinners  are  always  at  seven  o'clock.  I  was  ready  at 
quarter  of,  with  cold  hands  and  hot  cheeks.  I  knew 
the  very  instant  that  Mr.  Jennings  entered  the  room 
that  evening.  I  was  standing  at  the  far  end  with 
my  back  toward  the  door,  talking  to  the  war  veteran. 


106  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

At  the  first  sound  of  Mr.  Jennings'  greeting  as  he  met 
Lucy,  I  became  deaf  to  all  else.  I  heard  him  speaking 
to  the  others  near  her — such  a  trained  and  cultured 
voice — but  I  didn't  turn  around.  I  kept  my  eyes  riv- 
eted on  the  veteran.  It  was  enough,  at  that  instant,  to 
be  in  the  same  room  with  Robert  Jennings.  And  when 
Lucy  finally  said,  "Shall  we  go  out?"  I  wondered  if  I 
could  bear  the  ordeal  of  turning  around  and  meeting 
his  eyes.  I  needn't  have  been  afraid.  He  spared  me 
that.  There  was  no  greeting  of  any  kind  between  us 
until  we  sat  down. 

Lucy  had  placed  him  at  the  end  of  the  table  farthest 
away  from  me,  and  after  the  guests  were  all  settled, 
I  dared  at  last  to  look  up.  A  swift,  sweeping  glance 
I  meant  it  to  be,  but  his  eyes  were  waiting  for  mine, 
and  secretly,  concealed  by  the  noise  and  chatter  all 
around,  somewhere  among  Lucy's  carnations  in  the 
center  of  the  table,  we  met.  Only  for  an  instant.  He 
returned  immediately  to  his  partner,  and  I  to  mine. 
He  answered  her,  we  both  selected  a  piece  of  silver — 
and  then,  abruptly,  ran  away  to  each  other  again.  Fre- 
quently, during  that  dinner,  as  we  gained  confidence 
and  learned  the  way,  we  met  among  the  carnations. 

Never  before  was  I  so  glad  of  what  good  looks 
heaven  had  bestowed  upon  me  as  when  I  saw  this 
man's  eyes  examine  and  approve.  Never  before  did 
I  feel  so  elated  at  a  dinner,  so  glad  to  be  alive.  My 
pulse  ran  high.  My  spirits  fairly  danced.  And  all 
without  cocktails,  too!  Not  only  did  our  eyes  meet 


A  DINNER  PARTY  107 

in  stolen  interviews,  but  our  voices,  too.  He  couldn't 
speak  but  what  I  heard  him,  nor  did  I  laugh  but  what 
it  was  meant  for  him. 

During  the  hour  occasions  occurred  when  Mr.  Jen- 
nings alone  did  the  talking,  while  the  rest  listened.  I 
could  observe  him  then  without  fear  of  discovery.  He 
sat  there  opposite  me  in  his  perfect  evening  clothes, 
as  much  at  home  and  at  ease  as  in  Scotch  tweeds  in 
the  woods.  As  he  leaned  forward  a  little,  one  cuffed 
wrist  resting  on  the  table's  edge,  his  fine  head  held 
erect,  expressing  his  ideas  in  clear  and  well-turned 
phrases,  confident  in  himself,  and  listened  to  with  at- 
tention, I  glowed  with  pride  at  the  thought  of  my 
intimacy  with  him.  A  professor's  wife?  That  was 
a  mere  name — but  his,  this  young  aristocrat's — what 
a  privilege! 

We  didn't  speak  to  each  other  until  late  in  the 
evening,  when  the  ladies  rose  from  their  chairs  about 
the  fire  in  the  living-room  and  began  to  talk  about 
the  hour.  I  was  standing  alone  by  the  mantel  when  I 
became  conscious  that  Mr.  Jennings  had  moved  away 
from  beside  Mrs.  Van  Breeze,  and  was  making  his 
way  toward  me.  Everybody  was  saying  good  night 
to  Lucy.  We  were  quite  alone  for  a  minute.  He 
didn't  shake  hands — just  stood  before  me  smiling. 

"Well,  who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  you  recognize  me?"  I  replied. 

He  looked  me  up  and  down  deliberately. 

"It  is  very  pretty,"  he  said  quietly. 

I  felt  my  cheeks  grow  warm.     I  blushed.     Some- 


io8  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

body  told  me  my  dress  was  pretty,  and  I  blushed !  I 
might  have  been  sixteen. 

"Your  sister  said  I  could  stay  a  little  after  the  others 
go  if  I  wanted  to,"  Mr.  Jennings  went  on.  "Of  course 
I  want  to.  Shall  I?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  with  my  cheeks  still  on  fire.  "Yes. 
Stay."  And  he  went  away  in  a  moment.  I  heard  him 
laughing  with  the  others. 

I  strolled  over  to  the  pile  of  music  on  the  back  of 
Lucy's  piano  and  became  engrossed  in  looking  it  over. 
I  felt  weak  and  suddenly  incompetent.  I  felt  fright- 
ened and  unprepared.  I  was  still  there  with  the  pile 
of  music  when,  fifteen  minutes  later,  Lucy  and  Will, 
with  effusive  apologies,  excused  themselves  and  went 
upstairs.  Mr.  Jennings  approached  me.  We  were 
alone  at  last,  and  each  keenly  conscious  of  it. 

"Any  music  here  you  know  ?"  he  asked  indifferently, 
and  drew  a  sheet  towards  him. 

"Not  a  great  deal." 

"It  looks  pretty  much  worn,"  he  attempted. 

"Doesn't  it?"  I  agreed. 

"I  hardly  know  you  tonight!"  he  exclaimed,  sud- 
denly personal. 

"Don't  you  ?  I  wore  a  yellow  dress  and  purple  pan- 
sies  on  purpose,"  I  replied  as  lightly  as  I  could,  touch- 
ing the  flowers  at  my  waist. 

"Yes,  but  you  didn't  wear  the  same  look  in  your 
eyes,"  he  remarked. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  I  acknowledged. 

A  silence  enfolded  us — sweet,  significant. 


A  DINNER  PARTY  109 

Mr.  Jennings  broke  it.  "I  think  I  had  better  go," 
he  remarked. 

"Had  you?"  I  almost  whispered.  "Well "  and 

acquiesced. 

"Unless,"  he  added,  "you'll  sing  me  something.  Do 
you  sing — or  play?" 

"A  little,"  I  confessed. 

"Well,  will  you  then?" 

"Why,  yes,  if  you  want  me  to."  And  I  went  over 
and  sat  down  before  the  familiar  keys. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  I  knew  at  last  why  I 
had  taken  lessons  for  so  many  years;  why  so  much 
money  had  been  put  into  expensive  instruction,  and 
so  many  hours  devoted  to  daily  practise.  It  was  for 
this — for  this  particular  night — for  this  particular 
man.  I  saw  it  in  a  flash.  I  sang  a  song  in  English. 
"In  a  Garden,"  it  was  called.  Softly  I  played  the 
opening  phrases,  and  then  raised  my  chin  a  little  and 
began.  My  voice  isn't  strong,  but  it  can't  help  but 
behave  nicely.  It  can't  help  but  take  its  high  notes 
truly,  like  a  child  who  has  been  taught  pretty  man- 
ners ever  since  he  could  walk. 

After  I  had  finished  Mr.  Jennings  said  nothing  for 
an  instant.  Then,  "Sing  something  else,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  afterward  he  exclaimed,  "I  didn't  know! 
I  had  no  idea !  Your  sister  never  told  me  this!"  Then, 
"I  have  come  to  a  very  lovely  part  in  the  beautiful 
book  I  discovered,"  he  said  to  me.  "It  makes  me 
want  never  to  finish  the  book.  Sing  something  else." 


no  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

His  eyes  admired;  his  voice  caressed;  his  tenderness 
placed  me  high  in  the  sacred  precincts  of  his  soul. 

"Listen,  please,"  I  said  impulsively.  "You  mustn't 
go  on  thinking  well  of  me.  It  isn't  right.  I  shall  not 
let  you.  I'm  not  what  you  think.  Listen.  When  I 
first  met  you,  I  had  just  broken  my  engagement — just 
barely.  I  never  said  a  word  about  it.  I  let  you  go  on 
thinking  that  I — you  see  it  was  this  way — my  pride 
was  hurt  more  than  my  heart.  I'm  that  sort  of  girl. 
His  mother  is  Mrs.  F.  Rockridge  Sewall.  They  have 
a  summer  place  in  Hilton,  and — and — > — " 

"Don't  bother  to  go  into  that.  I've  known  it  all 
from  the  beginning,"  Mr.  Jennings  interrupted  gently. 

"Oh,  have  you  ?  You've  known  then,  all  along,  that 
I'm  just  a  frivolous  society  girl  who  can't  do  anything 
but  perform  a  few  parlor  tricks — and  things  like  that  ? 
I  was  afraid — I  was  so  afraid  I  had  misled  you." 

"You've  misled  only  yourself,"  he  smiled,  and  sud- 
denly he  put  his  hand  over  mine  as  it  rested  beside  the 
music  rack.  I  met  his  steady  eyes.  Just  for  an  in- 
stant. Abruptly  he  took  his  hand  away,  went  over  to 
the  fireplace,  and  began  poking  the  logs.  When  he 
spoke  next  he  did  not  turn  around. 

"This  is  an  evening  of  confessions,"  he  said. 
"There  are  some  things  about  me  you  might  as  well 
know,  too.  I  am  an  instructor,  with  a  salary  of  two 
thousand  five  hundred  dollars  a  year.  I  hope  to  make 
a  lawyer  out  of  myself  some  day,  I  don't  know  when. 
I've  hoped  to  for  a  long  while.  Circumstances  made 
it  necessary  after  I  graduated  from  college  to  find 


A  DINNER  PARTY  ill 

something  to  do  that  was  immediately  remunerative. 
I  discovered  that  my  mother  was  entirely  dependent 
upon  me.  My  ambitions  had  to  be  postponed  for  a 
while.  I  had  tutored  enough  during  my  college  course 
to  make  it  evident  that  I  could  teach,  and  I  grasped 
this  opportunity  as  a  fortunate  one.  There  are  hours 
each  day  when  I  can  read  law.  There  are  even  oppor- 
tunities to  attend  lectures.  It's  a  long  way  around  to 
my  goal,  I  know  that,  and  a  steep  way.  Everything 
that  I  can  save  is  laid  aside  for  the  time  when,  finally 
admitted  to  the  bar,  I  dare  throw  off  the  security  of  a 
salary.  My  mother  is  quite  alone.  I  must  always  look 
out  for  her.  I  am  all  she  has.  I  shall  inherit  little  or 
nothing.  If  there  is  any  one  who  has  allowed  a  pos- 
sible delusion  to  continue  about  himself  it  is  I — not 
you,  Miss  Vars.  Hello,"  he  interrupted  himself,  "it's 
getting  late.  Quarter  of  twelve !  I  ought  to  be  shot." 
He  turned  about  and  came  over  toward  me.  "Your 
sister  will  be  turning  me  out  next,"  he  said  glibly.  He 
was  quite  formal  now.  We  might  have  been  just  in- 
troduced. 

His  manner  forbade  me  to  speak.  He  gave  me  no 
opportunity  to  tell  him  that  his  circumstances  made 
no  difference.  Salary  or  no  salary  I  did  not  care — 
nothing  made  any  difference  now.  He  simply  wanted 
me  to  keep  still.  He  eagerly  desired  it. 

"Good  night,"  he  said  cheerfully.  In  matter-of-fact 
fashion  we  shook  hands.  "Forgive  me  for  the  dis- 
graceful hour.  Good  night." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LUCY    TAKES    UP   THE    NARRATIVE 

IT  was  an  afternoon  in  late  February.  A  feeling  of 
spring  had  been  in  the  air  all  day.  In  the  living- 
room  a  lingering  sun  cast  a  path  of  light  upon  the 
mahogany  surface  of  a  grand  piano.  In  my  living- 
room,  I  should  say.  For  I  am  Mrs.  Maynard,  wife 
of  Doctor  William  Ford  Maynard  of  international 
guinea-pig  fame;  sister  of  Ruth  Chenery  Vars;  one- 
time confidante  of  Robert  Hopkinson  Jennings.  I 
haven't  any  identity  of  my  own.  I'm  simply  one  of 
the  audience,  an  onlooker — an  anxious  and  worried 
one,  just  at  present,  who  wishes  somebody  would 
assure  me  that  the  play  has  a  happy  ending.  I  don't 
like,  sad  plays.  I  don't  like  being  harrowed  for  noth- 
ing. I've  taken  to  paper  simply  because  I'm  all  of  a 
tremble  for  fear  the  play  I've  been  watching  for  the 
last  month  or  two  won't  come  out  right.  Sometimes 
I  feel  as  if  I'd  like  to  dash  across  the  footlights  and 
tell  the  actors  what  to  say. 

Ruth  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  Robert  Jennings. 
At  first  it  seemed  to  me  too  good  to  be  true.  After 
the  sort  of  bringing  up  my  sister  has  had.  culminating 
in  that  miserable  affair  of  hers  with  Breckenridge 

112 


LUCY  TAKES  UP  THE  NARRATIVE  113 

Sewall,  I  was  afraid  that  happiness  would  slip  by  her 
altogether. 

Robert  Jennings  is  the  salt  of  the  earth.  I  believe  I 
was  as  happy  as  Ruth  the  first  four  weeks  of  her 
engagement,  and  then  these  clouds  began  to  gather. 
The  first  time  I  was  conscious  of  them  was  the  after- 
noon I  have  just  referred  to,  in  late  February. 

I  went  into  my  living-room  that  day  just  to  see  that 
it  was  in  order  in  case  of  callers.  It  is  difficult  to  keep 
a  living-room  in  order  when  your  spoiled  young  so- 
ciety-sister is  visiting  you.  Today  in  the  middle  of 
one  of  the  large  cushions  on  the  sofa  appeared  an 
indentation.  From  beneath  one  corner  of  the  cushion 
escaped  the  edge  of  a  crushed  handkerchief.  Open, 
face  down,  upon  the  floor  lay  an  abandoned  book.  I 
straightened  the  pillow  and  then  picked  up  the  book. 

"Oh !"  I  exclaimed,  actually  out  loud  as  my  eyes  fell 
on  the  title.  "This!" 

It  was  a  modern  novel  much  under  discussion,  an 
unpleasant  book,  reviewers  pronounced  it,  and  un- 
necessarily bold.  I  opened  it.  Certain  passages  were 
marked  with  wriggling  lines  made  with  a  soft  pencil. 
I  read  a  marked  paragraph  or  two,  standing  just  where 
I  was  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Suddenly  the  door-bell  rang,  twice,  sharply,  and 
almost  immediately  afterward  I  heard  some  one  shove 
open  the  front  door. 

I  slipped  the  book  behind  the  pillow  which  I  had 
just  straightened,  walked  over  to  a  geranium  in  the 
window,  and  nonchalantly  snipped  off  a  leaf. 


114  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Hello!"  a  man's  cheerful  voice  called  out.  "Any 
one  at  home?" 

"Yes,  in  here,  Bob,"  I  called  back.     "Come  in." 

Robert  Jennings  entered.  He  glowed  as  if  he  had 
just  been  walking  up  hill  briskly.  He  shook  hands 
with  me. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  his  gray  eyes  smiling  pleasantly. 
"Been  out  today?  Ought  to!  Like  spring.  Where's 
Ruth?" 

"Just  gone  to  the  Square.  She'll  be  right  back. 
Run  out  of  cotton  for  your  breakfast-napkins." 

"Breakfast-napkins!"  he  exclaimed,  and  laughed 
boyishly.  I  laughed,  too.  "It  doesn't  seem  quite  pos- 
sible, does  it?  Breakfast-napkins,  and  four  months 
ago  I  didn't  even  know  her!  Mind?"  he  asked 
abruptly,  holding  up  a  silver  case.  He  selected  and  lit 
a  cigarette,  flipping  the  charred  match  straight  as  an 
arrow  into  the  fireplace.  He  smoked  in  silence  a 
moment,  smiling  meditatively.  "Mother's  making 
some  napkins,  too !"  he  broke  out.  "They're  going  to 
get  on — Ruth  and  mother — beautifully.  'She's  a 
dear !'  That's  what  mother  says  of  Ruth  half  a  dozen 
times  a  day.  'She's  a  dear !'  And  somehow  the  trite- 
ness of  the  phrase  from  mother  is  ridiculously  pleasing 
to  me.  May  I  sit  down  ?" 

"Of  course.    Do." 

He  approached  the  sofa,  but  before  throwing  him- 
self into  one  of  its  inviting  corners,  manlike  he  placed 
one  of  the  large  sofa  pillows  rather  gingerly  on  the 


LUCY  TAKES  UP  THE  NARRATIVE     115 

floor  against  a  table-leg.  Behind  the  pillow  appeared 
the  book. 

"Hello,"  he  exclaimed,  "what's  this?"  And  he  held 
it  up. 

I  put  out  my  hand.  "I'll  take  it,  thank  you,"  I 
said. 

"Whose  is  this,  anyhow?"  he  asked,  opening  the 
book  instead  of  passing  it  over  to  me.  "Looks  like 
Ruth's  marks."  Then  after  a  pause,  "Is  it  Ruth's?" 

"I  don't  know.     Perhaps." 

"She  shouldn't  read  stuff  like  this!"  pronounced 
the  young  judge. 

"Oh,  Ruth  has  always  read  everything  she  wanted 
to." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so — more's  the  pity — best-sellers, 
anything  that's  going.  But  this — this!  It's  not  de- 
cent for  her,  for  any  girl.  I  don't  believe  in  this 
modern  idea  of  exposure,  anyhow.  But  here  she 
comes."  His  face  lighted.  He  put  aside  the  book. 
"Here  Ruth  comes!"  And  he  went  out  into  the  hall 
to  meet  her. 

I  heard  the  front  door  open,  the  rustle  of  a  greet- 
ing, and  a  moment  later  my  sister  and  Robert  Jen- 
nings both  came  in. 

Ruth  had  become  a  shining  roseate  creature.  Al- 
ways beautiful,  always  exquisite — flawless  features, 
perfect  poise,  now  she  pulsated  with  life.  A  new 
brightness  glowed  in  her  eyes.  Of  late  across  her 
cheeks  color  was  wont  to  come  and  go  like  the  shadow 
of  clouds  on  a  hillside  on  a  windy  day.  Even  her 


n6  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

voice,  usually  steady  and  controlled,  now  and  again 
trembled  and  broke  with  sudden  emotion.  She  came 
into  the  room  smiling,  very  pretty,  very  lovely  (could 
we  really  be  children  of  the  same  parents?),  with  a 
pink  rose  slipped  into  the  opening  of  her  coat.  She 
drew  out  her  rose  and  came  over  and  passed  it  to  me. 

"There,"  she  said,  "it's  for  you,  Lucy.  I  bought 
it  especially!"  Such  a  strange  new  Ruth!  Once  so 
worldly,  so  selfish;  now  so  sweet  and  full  of  queer 
tenderness.  I  hardly  recognized  her.  "It's  heavenly 
out-doors,"  she  went  on.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 
And  she  went  out  into  the  hall  to  take  off  her  hat  and 
coat. 

Robert  went  over  to  the  book  he  had  laid  on  the 
table  and  picked  it  up.  When  Ruth  joined  us  he  in- 
quired pleasantly,  "Where  in  the  world  did  you  run 
across  this,  Ruth?" 

"That?"  she  smiled.  "Oh,  I  bought  it.  Every- 
body is  talking  about  it,  and  I  bought  it.  It  isn't  so 
bad.  Some  parts  are  really  very  nice.  I've  marked 
a  few  I  liked." 

"Why,  Ruth,"  he  said  solicitously,  "it  isn't  a  book 
for  you  to  read." 

"That's  very  sweet  and  protective,  Bob,"  she 
laughed  gently,  "but  after  all  I'm  not — what  do  you 
call  it — early  Victorian.  I'm  twentieth  century,  and 
an  American  at  that.  Every  book  printed  is  for  me 
to  read." 

"Oh,  no!     I  should  hope  not!     Too  much  of  this 


LUCY  TAKES  UP  THE  NARRATIVE     117 

sort  of  stuff  would  rob  a  girl  of  every  illusion  she 
ever  had." 

"Illusions!  Oh,  well,"  she  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
"who  wants  illusions?  I  don't.  I  want  truth,  Bob. 
I  want  to  know  everything  there  is  to  know  in  this 
world,  good,  bad  or  indifferent.  And  you  needn't  be 
afraid.  It  won't  hurt  me.  Truth  is  good  for  any  one, 
whether  it's  pleasant  truth  or  not.  It  makes  one's 
opinions  of  more  value,  if  nothing  else.  And  of 
course  you  want  my  opinions  to  be  worth  something, 
don't  you?"  she  wheedled. 

"But,  my  dear,"  complained  Bob,  "this  book  repre- 
sents more  lies  than  it  does  truth." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  asked  earnestly.  "Now  I 
thought  it  was  a  wonderfully  true  portrayal  of  just 
how  a  man  and  woman  would  feel  under  those  cir- 
cumstances." 

Bob  looked  actually  pained.  "O  Ruth,  how  can 
you  judge  of  such  circumstances?  Of  such  feelings? 
Why,  I  don't  like  even  to  discuss  such  rottenness  with 
you  as  this." 

"How  absurd,  Bob,"  Ruth  deprecated  lightly.  "I'm 
not  a  Jane  Austen  sort  of  girl.  I've  always  read 
things.  I've  always  read  everything  I  wanted  to." 
Bob  was  still  standing  with  the  book  in  his  hands,  look- 
ing at  it.  He  didn't  reply  for  a  moment.  Something 
especially  obnoxious  must  have  met  his  eyes,  for 
abruptly  he  threw  the  book  down  upon  the  table. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  ask  you  not  to  finish 
reading  this" 


ii8  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"You  aren't  serious!" 

"Yes,  I  am,  Ruth,"  replied  Bob.  "Let  me  be  the 
judge  about  this.  Trust  it  to  me.  You've  read  only 
a  little  of  the  book.  It's  worse  later — unpleasant, 
distorted.  There  are  other  avenues  to  truth — not  this 
one,  please.  Yes,  I  am  serious." 

He  smiled  disarmingly.  For  the  first  time  since 
their  engagement  I  saw  Ruth  fail  to  smile  back. 
There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  Then  in  a  low  voice 
Ruth  asked,  "Do  you  mean  you  ask  me  to  stop  read- 
ing a  book  right  in  the  middle  of  it?  Don't  ask  me 
to  do  a  childish  thing  like  that,  Bob." 

"But  Ruth,"  he  persisted,  "it's  to  guard  you,  to 
protect  you." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  protected,  not  that  way," 
she  protested.  Her  gray  eyes  were  almost  black.  Her 
voice,  though  low  and  quiet  enough,  trembled.  They 
must  have  forgotten  I  was  in  the  room. 

"Is  it  such  a  lot  to  ask?"  pleaded  Bob. 

"You  do  ask  it  then?"  repeated  Ruth  uncompre- 
hendingly. 

"Why,  Ruth,  yes,  I  do.  If  a  doctor  told  you  not 
to  eat  a  certain  thing,"  Bob  began  trying  to  be  playful, 
"that  he  knew  was  bad  for  you  and " 

"But  you're  not  my  doctor,"  interrupted  Ruth. 
"That's  just  it.  You're It  seems  all  wrong  some- 
how," she  broke  off,  "as  if  I  was  a  child,  or  an  ig- 
norant patient  of  yours,  and  I'm  not.  I'm  not.  Will 
you  pass  it  to  me,  please — the  book  ?" 


LUCY  TAKES  UP  THE  NARRATIVE     119 

Bob  gave  it  to  her  immediately.  "You're  going 
to  finish  it  then?"  he  asked,  alarmed. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ruth,  wide-eyed,  a  little 
alarmed  herself,  I  think.  "I  don't  know.  I  must 
think  it  over."  She  crossed  the  room  to  the  secre- 
tary, opened  the  glass  door,  and  placed  the  book  on 
one  of  the  high  shelves.  "There,"  she  said,  "there 
it  is."  Then  turning  around  she  added,  "I'll  let  you 
know  when  I  decide,  Bob.  And  now  I  guess  I'll  go 
upstairs,  if  you  don't  mind.  These  walking-shoes  are 
so  heavy.  Good-by."  And  she  fled,  on  the  verge  of 
what  I  feared  was  tears. 

Both  Bob  and  Ruth  were  so  surprised  at  the  ap- 
pearance of  this  sudden  and  unlooked-for  issue  that 
I  felt  convinced  it  was  their  first  difference  of  opin- 
ion. I  was  worried.  I  couldn't  foretell  how  it  would 
come  out.  Their  friendship  had  been  brief — perhaps 
too  brief.  Their  engagement  was  only  four  weeks 
old.  They  loved — I  was  sure  of  that — but  they  didn't 
know  each  other  very  well.  Old  friend  of  Will's  and 
mine  as  Robert  Jennings  is,  I  knew  him  to  be  con- 
servative, steeped  in  traditions  since  childhood.  Rob- 
ert idealizes  everything  mellowed  by  age,  from  pic- 
tures and  literature  to  laws  and  institutions.  Ruth, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  a  pronounced  modernist.  It 
doesn't  make  much  difference  whether  it's  a  hat  or  a 
novel,  if  it's  new  and  up  to  date  Ruth  delights  in  it. 

I  poured  out  my  misgivings  to  Will  that  night  be- 
hind closed  doors.  Will  had  never  had  a  high  opinion 
of  Ruth. 


120  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Modernism  isn't  her  difficulty,  my  dear,"  he  re- 
marked. "Selfishness,  with  a  big  S.  That's  the  trouble 
with  Ruth.  Society  too.  Big  S.  And  a  pinch  of 
stubbornness  also.  She  never  would  take  any  advice 
from  any  one — self-satisfied  little  Ruth  wouldn't — 
and  poor  Bob  is  the  salt  of  the  earth  too.  It's  a 
shame.  Whoever  would  have  thought  fine  old  Bob 
would  have  fallen  into  calculating  young  Ruth's  net 
anyhow !" 

"O  Will,  please.  You  do  misjudge  her,"  I  pleaded. 
"It  isn't  so.  She  isn't  calculating.  You've  said  it 
before,  and  she  isn't — not  always.  Not  this  time." 

"You  ruffle  like  a  protecting  mother  hen!"  laughed 
Will.  "Don't  worry  that  young  head  of  yours  too 
much,  dear.  It  isn't  your  love  affair,  remember." 

It  is  my  love  affair.  That's  the  difficulty.  In  all 
sorts  of  quiet  and  covered  ways  have  I  tried  to  help 
and  urge  the  friendship  along.  Always,  even  before 
Ruth  was  engaged  to  Breckenridge  Sewall,  have  I 
secretly  nursed  the  hope  that  Robert  Jennings  and  my 
sister  might  discover  each  other  some  day — each  so 
beautiful  to  look  upon,  each  so  distinguished  in  poise 
and  speech  and  manner;  Ruth  so  clever;  Bob  such  a 
scholar;  both  of  them  clean,  young  New  Englanders, 
born  under  not  dissimilar  circumstances,  and  both 
much  beloved  by  me.  It  is  my  love  affair,  and  it 
simply  mustn't  have  quarrels. 

I  didn't  refer  to  the  book  the  next  day,  nor  did  I 
let  Ruth  know  by  look  or  word  that  I  noticed  her 
silence  at  table  or  her  preoccupied  manner.  I  made 


LUCY  TAKES  UP  THE  NARRATIVE  121 

no  observation  upon  Robert's  failure  to  make  his 
daily  call  the  next  afternoon.  She  may  have  written 
and  told  him  to  stay  away.  I  did  not  know.  In  mute 
suspense  I  awaited  the  announcement  of  her  decision. 
It  was  made  at  last,  sweetly,  exquisitely,  I  thought. 

On  the  second  afternoon  Robert  called  as  usual. 
I  was  in  the  living-room  when  he  came  in.  When 
Ruth  appeared  in  the  doorway,  I  got  up  to  go. 

"No,  please,"  she  said.  "Stay,  Lucy,  you  were  here 
before.  Hello,  Bob,"  she  smiled,  then  very  quietly 
she  added,  "I've  made  my  decision." 

"Ruth!"  Robert  began. 

"Wait  a  minute,  please,"  she  said. 

She  went  over  to  the  secretary,  opened  the  door 
and  took  down  the  book.  Then  she  crossed  to  the 
table,  got  a  match,  approached  the  fireplace,  leaned 
down,  and  set  fire  to  my  cherished  selected  birch-logs. 
She  held  up  the  book  then  and  smiled  radiantly  at 
Robert.  "This  is  my  decision!"  she  said,  and  laid 
the  book  in  the  flames. 

"Good  heavens,"  I  wanted  to  exclaim,  "that's  worth 
a  dollar  thirty-five!" 

"I've  thought  it  all  over,"  Ruth  said  simply,  beau- 
tiful in  the  dignity  of  her  new-born  self-abnegation. 
"A  book  is  only  paper  and  print,  after  all.  I  was 
making  a  mountain  out  of  it.  It's  as  you  wish,  Bob. 
I  won't  finish  reading  it." 

We  were  very  happy  that  night.  Robert  stayed  to 
dinner.  Will  chanced  to  be  absent  and  there  were 
only  the  three  of  us  at  table.  There  was  a  mellow 


122  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

sort  of  stillness.  A  softness  of  voice  possessed  us 
all,  even  when  we  asked  for  bread  or  salt.  Our  con- 
versation was  trivial,  unimportant,  but  kind  and  gentle. 
Between  Ruth  and  Robert  there  glowed  adoration  for 
each  other,  which  words  and  commonplaces  could  not 
conceal. 

Robert  stayed  late.  Upstairs  in  Will's  study  the 
clock  struck  eleven-thirty  when  I  heard  the  front  door 
close,  and  peeked  out  and  saw  Robert  walking  down 
over  our  flag-stones. 

A  moment  later  Ruth  came  upstairs  softly.  She 
went  straight  to  her  own  room.  She  closed  the  door 
without  a  sound.  My  sister,  I  knew,  was  filled  with 
the  kind  of  exaltation  that  made  her  gentle  even  to 
stairs  and  door-knobs. 

Next  morning  she  was  singing  as  usual  over  her 
initialing.  We  went  into  town  at  eleven-thirty  to 
look  up  table  linen.  Edith  met  us  for  lunch.  One  of 
the  summer  colonists  had  told  Edith  about  Robert's 
"connections"  (he  has  several  in  Boston  in  the  Back 
Bay  and  he  himself  was  born  in  a  house  with  violet- 
colored  panes)  and  Edith  had  become  remarkably  en- 
thusiastic. She  was  going  to  present  Ruth  with  all 
her  lingerie. 

"After  all,"  she  said  one  day  in  way  of  reassurance 
to  Ruth,  "you  would  have  been  in  a  pretty  mess  if 
you'd  married  Breck  Sewall.  Some  gay  lady  in 
Breck's  dark  and  shady  past  sprang  up  with  a  spicy 
little  law  suit  two  weeks  before  he  was  to  be  married 
to  that  Oliphant  girl.  Perhaps  you  saw  it  in  the 


LUCY  TAKES  UP  THE  NARRATIVE     123 

paper.  Wedding  all  off,  and  Breck  evading  the  law 
nobody  knows  where.  This  Bob  of  yours  is  as  poor 
as  Job's  turkey,  I  suppose,  but  anyhow,  he's  decent. 
An  uncle  of  his  is  president  of  a  bank  in  Boston  and 
belongs  to  all  sorts  of  exclusive  clubs  and  things.  I'm 
going  to  give  you  your  wedding,  you  know,  Toots. 
I've  always  wanted  a  good  excuse  for  a  hack  at  Bos- 
ton." 


CHAPTER    XIV 

BOB    TURNS    OUT    A    CONSERVATIVE 

BUT  Edith  didn't  give  Ruth  her  wedding.  There- 
was  no  wedding.  Ruth  didn't  marry  Robert 
Jennings ! 

I  cannot  feel  the  pain  that  is  Ruth's,  the  daily  loss 
of  Bob's  eyes  that  worshiped,  voice  that  caressed — " 
no,  not  that  hurt — but  I  do  feel  bitterness  and  dis- 
appointment. They  loved  each  other.  I  thought  that 
love  always  could  rescue.  I  was  mistaken.  Love  is 
not  the  most  important  thing  in  marriage.  No.  They 
tell  me  ideals  should  be  considered  first.  And  yet  as 
I  sit  here  in  my  room  and  listen  to  the  emptiness  of 
the  house — Ruth's  song  gone  out  of  it,  Ruth  fled  with 
her  wound,  I  know  not  where — and  see  Bob,  a  new, 
quiet,  subdued  Bob,  walking  along  by  the  house  to  the 
University,  looking  up  to  my  window  and  smiling  (a 
queer  smile  that  hurts  every  time),  the  sparkle  and 
joy  gone  out  like  a  flame,  I  whisper  to  myself  fiercely, 
"It's  all  wrong.  Ideals  to  the  winds.  They  loved  each 
other,  and  it  is  all  wrong." 

They  were  engaged  about  three  months  in  all.  They 
were  so  jubilant  at  first  that  they  wanted  the  engage- 
ment announced  immediately.  The  college  paper  tri- 

124 


BOB  TURNS  OUT  A  CONSERVATIVE     125 

umphantly  blazoned  the  news,  and  of  course  the  daily 
papers  too.  Everybody  was  interested.  Everybody 
congratulated  them.  Ruth  has  hosts  of  friends,  Rob- 
ert too.  Ruth's  mail  for  a  month  was  enormous.  The 
house  was  sweet  with  flowers  for  days.  Her  presents 
rivaled  a  bride's.  And  yet  she  gave  it  all  up — even 
loving  Bob.  She  chose  to  face  disapproval  and  dis- 
trust. Will  called  her  heartless  for  it;  Tom,  fickle; 
Edith,  a  fool ;  but  I  call  her  courageous. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  Ruth's  love 
for  Robert  Jennings.  No  other  man  before  had  got 
beneath  the  veneer  of  her  worldliness.  Robert  laid 
bare  secret  expanses  of  her  nature,  and  then,  like 
warm  sunlight  on  a  hillside  from  which  the  snow  has 
melted  away,  persuaded  the  expanses  into  bloom  and 
beauty.  Timid  generosities  sprang  forth  in  Ruth. 
Tolerance,  gratitude,  appreciation  blossomed  frailly; 
and  over  all  there  spread,  like  those  hosts  of  four- 
petaled  flowers  we  used  to  call  bluets,  which  grew 
in  such  abundance  among  rarer  violets  or  wild  straw- 
berry— there  spread  through  Ruth's  awakened  nature 
a  thousand  and  one  little  kindly  impulses  that  had  to 
do  with  smiles  for  servants,  kind  words  for  old  people, 
and  courtesy  to  clerks  in  shops.  I  don't  believe  that 
anything  but  love  could  work  such  a  miracle  with 
Ruth.  If  only  she  had  waited,  perhaps  it  would  have 
performed  more  wonderful  feats. 

The  book  incident  was  the  first  indication  of  trouble. 
The  second  was  more  trivial.  It  happened  one  Sun- 
day noon.  We  had  been  to  church  that  morning 


126  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

together — Ruth,  Will  and  I — and  Robert  Jennings 
was  expected  for  our  mid-day  dinner  at  one-thirty. 
He  hadn't  arrived  when  we  returned  at  one,  and  after 
Ruth  had  taken  off  her  church  clothes  and  changed 
to  something  soft  and  filmy,  she  sat  down  at  the 
piano  and  played  a  little  while — five  minutes  or  so — 
then  rose  and  strolled  over  toward  the  front  window. 
She  seated  herself,  humming  softly,  by  a  table  there. 
"Bob's  late,"  she  remarked  and  lazily  reached  across 
the  table,  opened  my  auction-bridge  box,  selected  a 
pack  of  cards,  and  still  humming  began  to  play  soli- 
taire. 

The  cards  were  all  laid  out  before  her  when  Robert 
finally  did  arrive.  Ruth  gave  him  one  of  her  long, 
sweet  glances,  then  demurely  began  laying  out  more 
cards.  "Good  morning,  Bob,"  she  said  richly. 

Bob  said  good  morning,  too,  but  I  discerned  some- 
thing forced  and  peremptory  in  his  voice.  I  felt  that 
that  pack  of  playing  cards  laid  out  before  Ruth  on  the 
Sabbath-day  affected  him  just  as  it  had  me  when  first 
Ruth  came  to  live  with  us.  I  had  been  brought  up 
to  look  upon  card-playing  on  Sunday  as  forbidden. 
In  Hilton  I  could  remember  when  policemen  searched 
vacant  lots  and  fields  on  Sunday  for  crowds  of  bad 
boys  engaged  in  the  shocking  pastime  beneath  secreted 
shade  trees.  Ruth  had  traveled  so  widely  and  spent 
so  many  months  visiting  in  various  communities  where 
card-playing  on  Sunday  was  the  custom  that  I  knew 
it  didn't  occur  to  her  as  anything  out  of  the  ordinary. 
I  tried  to  listen  to  what  Will  was  reading  out  loud  to 


BOB  TURNS  OUT  A  CONSERVATIVE     127 

me  from  the  paper,  but  the  fascination  of  the  argu- 
ment going  on  behind  my  back  by  the  window  held 
me. 

"But,  Bob  dear/'I  heard  Ruth's  surprised  voice  ex- 
postulate pleasantly,  "you  play  golf  occasionally  on 
Sunday.  What's  the  difference?  Both  a  game,  one 
played  with  sticks  and  a  ball,  and  the  other  with  black 
and  red  cards.  I  was  allowed  to  play  Bible  authors 
when  I  was  a  child,  and  it's  terribly  narrow,  when  you 
look  at  it  squarely,  to  say  that  one  pack  of  cards  is 
any  more  wicked  than  another." 

"It's  not  a  matter  of  wickedness,"  Bob  replied  in 
a  low,  disturbed  voice.  "It's  a  matter  of  taste,  and 
reverence  for  pervading  custom." 

"But "  put  in  Ruth. 

"Irreverence  for  pervading  custom,"  went  on  Bob, 
"is  shown  by  certain  men  when  they  smoke,  with  no 
word  of  apology,  in  a  lady's  reception-room,  or  track 
mud  in  on  their  boots,  as  if  it  was  a  country  club. 
Some  people  enjoy  having  their  Sundays  observed  as 
Sunday,  just  as  they  do  their  reception-rooms  as  re- 
ception-rooms." 

"But,  Bob " 

"I  think  of  you  as  such  an  exquisite  person,"  he 
pursued,  "so  fine,  so  sensitive,  I  cannot  associate  you 
with  any  form  of  offense  or  vulgarity,  like  this,"  he 
must  have  pointed  to  the  cards,  "or  extreme  fashions, 
or  cigarette  smoking.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

"Vulgarity!  Cigarette  smoking!  Why,  Bob,  some 
of  the  most  refined  women  in  the  world  smoke  cigar- 


128  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

ettes — clever,  intelligent  women,  too.  And  I  never 
could  see  any  justice  at  all  in  the  idea  some  people 
have  that  it's  any  worse,  or  more  vulgar,  as  you  say, 
for  women  to  smoke  cigarettes  than  for  men." 

"Irreverence  for  custom  again,  I  suppose,"  sighed 
Bob. 

"Well,  then,  if  it's  a  custom  that's  unjust  and  based 
on  prejudice,  why  keep  on  observing  it?  It  used  to 
be  the  custom  for  men  to  wear  satin  knickerbockers 
and  lace  ruffles  over  their  wrists,  but  some  one  was 
sensible  enough — or  irreverent  enough — "  she  tucked 
in  good-naturedly,  "to  object — and  you're  the  gainer. 
There !  How's  that  for  an  answer  ?  Doesn't  solitaire 
win?" 

"Custom  and  tradition,"  replied  Bob  earnestly,  anx- 
iously, "is  the  work  of  the  conservative  and  thoughtful 
majority,  and  to  custom  and  tradition  every  civiliza- 
tion must  look  for  a  solid  foundation.  Ignore  them 
and  we  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  people." 

"Then  how  shall  we  ever  progress?"  eagerly  took 
up  Ruth,  "if  we  just  keep  blindly  following  old-fogey 
laws  and  fashions  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  the  only  way 
people  ever  get  ahead  is  by  breaking  traditions.  Father 
broke  a  few  in  his  generation — he  had  to  to  keep  up 
with  the  game — and  so  must  I." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Bob,  almost  wearily,  "let's  not 
argue,  you  and  I." 

"Why  not  ?"  inquired  Ruth,  and  I  heard  her  dealing" 
out  more  cards  as  she  went  on  talking  gaily.  "I  love 
a  good  argument.  It  wakes  me  up  intellectually.  My 


'Men  seem  to  want  to  make  just  nice  soft  pussy-cats  out 
of  us,  with  ribbons  round  our  necks,  and  hear  us  purr'  " 

— Page  129 


BOB  TURNS  OUT  A  CONSERVATIVE     129 

mind's  been  so  lazy.  It  needs  to  be  waked  up.  It  feels 
good,  like  the  first  spring  plunge  in  a  pond  of  cold 
water  to  a  sleepy  old  bear  who's  been  rolled  up  in 
a  ball  in  some  dark  hole  all  winter.  That's  what  it 
feels  like.  I  never  knew  what  fun  it  was  to  think  and 
argue  till  I  began  taking  the  English  course  at  Shirley. 
We  argue  by  the  hour  there.  It's  great  fun.  But  I 
suppose  I'm  terribly  illogical  and  no  fun  to  argue 
with.  That's  the  way  with  most  women.  It  isn't  our 
fault.  Men  seem  to  want  to  make  just  nice  soft  pussy 
cats  out  of  us,  with  ribbons  round  our  necks,"  she 
laughed,  "and  hear  us  purr.  There!  wait  a  minute. 
I'm  going  to  get  this.  Come  and  see."  Then  abruptly, 
''Why,  Bob,  do  the  cards  shock  you?' 

"No,  no — not  a  bit,"  he  assured  her. 

"They  do,"  she  affirmed.  "How  funny.  They  do." 
There  was  a  pause.  "Well,"  she  said  at  last  (Will 
was  still  reading  out  loud  and  I  could  barely  catch 
her  answer).  "Well,  I  suppose  they're  only  paste- 
board, just  as  the  book  was  only  paper  and  print.  I 
can  give  them  up." 

"I  don't  want  you  to — not  for  me.  No,  don't.  Go 
right  ahead.  Please,"  urged  Bob.  But  it  was  too 
late. 

"Of  course  not,"  replied  Ruth,  and  I  heard  the  cards 
going  back  into  the  box.  "If  I  offend — and  I  see  I 
do — of  course  not."  And  she  rose  and  came  over 
and  sat  on  the  sofa  beside  me. 

From  that  time  on  I  noticed  a  change  in  Robert 
and  Ruth — nothing  very  perceptible.  Robert  came 


130  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

as  often,  stayed  as  late — later.  That  was  what  dis- 
turbed me.  Ruth  rose  in  the  morning,  after  some  of 
those  protracted  sessions,  suspiciously  quiet  and  sut> 
dued.  In  place  of  the  radiance  that  so  lately  had  shont 
upon  her  face,  often  I  perceived  a  puzzled  and  troubled 
expression.  In  place  of  her  almost  hilarious  joy,  a 
wistfulness  stole  into  her  bearing  toward  Bob. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  to  me  one  day,  "I  have  been 
living  a  sort  of — well,  broad  life  you  might  call  it  for 
a  daughter  of  father's,  I  suppose.  He  was  so  straight- 
laced.  But  all  the  modes  and  codes  I've  been  adopting 
for  the  last  several  years  I  adopted  only  to  be  polite, 
to  do  as  other  people  did,  simply  not  to  offend — as 
Bob  said  the  other  day.  I  thought  if  I  ever  wanted 
to  go  back  to  the  strict  laws  of  my  childhood  again,  I 
could  easily  enough.  In  fact  I  intended  to,  after  I  had 
had  my  little  fling.  But  I've  outgrown  them.  They 
don't  seem  reasonable  to  me  now.  I  can't  go  back  to 
them.  Convictions  stand  in  my  way." 

"Women  ought  not  to  have  convictions,"  I  said 
shortly. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  queried  Ruth. 

"Men,"  I  replied,  "have  so  much  more  knowledge 
and  experience  of  the  world.  Convictions  have  foun- 
dations with  men." 

"How  unfair  somehow,"  said  Ruth,  looking  away 
into  space. 

"Just  you  take  my  advice,  Ruth,"  I  went  on,  "and 
don't  you  let  any  convictions  you  may  think  you  have 
get  in  the  way  of  your  happiness.  Just  you  let  them 


BOB  TURNS  OUT  A  CONSERVATIVE     131 

lie  for  a  while.  When  you  and  Bob  are  hanging  up 
curtains  in  your  new  apartment,  and  pictures  and 
things,  you  won't  care  a  straw  about  your  convictions 
then."  " 

"I  don't  suppose  so,"  replied  Ruth,  still  meditative. 
"No,  I  suppose  you're  right.  I'll  let  Bob  have  the 
convictions  for  both  of  us.  I'm  younger.  I  can  re- 
adjust easier  than  he,  I  guess." 

A  few  days  later  Ruth  went  to  a  suffrage  meeting 
in  town;  not  becaue  she  was  especially  interested,  but 
because  a  friend  she  had  made  in  a  course  she  was 
taking  at  Shirley  College  invited  her  to  go. 

It  was  the  winter  that  everybody  was  discussing 
suffrage  at  teas  and  dinner  parties ;  fairs  and  balls  and 
parades  were  being  given  in  various  cities  in  its  inter- 
est; and  anti-organizations  being  formed  to  fight  it 
and  lend  it  zest.  It  was  the  winter  that  the  term  Fem- 
inism first  reached  the  United  States,  and  books  on 
the  greater  freedom  of  women  and  their  liberaliza- 
tion burst  into  print  and  popularity. 

On  the  suffrage  question  Ruth  had  always  been  pret- 
tily "on  the  fence,"  and  "Oh,  dear,  do  let's  talk  of 
something  else,"  she  would  laugh,  while  her  eyes  in- 
vited. Her  dinner  partners  were  always  willing. 

"On  the  fence,  Kidlet,"  Edith  had  once  remon- 
strated to  Ruth,  "that's  stupid!"  Edith  herself  was 
strongly  anti.  "Of  course  I'm  and,"  she  main- 
tained proudly.  "Anybody  who  is  anybody  in  Hilton 
is  anti.  The  suffragists — dear  me!  Perfect  freaks — 
most  of  them.  People  you  never  heard  of !  I  peeked 


132  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

in  at  a  suffrage  tea  the  other  day  and  mercy,  such 
sights !  I  wouldn't  be  one  of  them  for  money.  We're 
to  give  an  anti-ball  here  in  Hilton.  I'm  a  patroness. 
Name  to  be  printed  alongside  Mrs.  ex-Governor 
Vaile's.  How's  that?  'On  the  fence,'  Ruth!  Why, 
good  heavens,  there's  simply  no  two  sides  to  the  ques- 
tion. You  come  along  to  this  anti-ball  and  you'll  see, 
Kiddie!" 

Well,  as  I  said,  Ruth  went  one  day  to  a  suffrage 
meeting  in  town.  She  had  never  heard  the  question 
discussed  from  a  platform.  When  she  came  into  the 
house  about  six  o'clock,  she  was  so  full  of  enthusiasm 
that  she  didn't  stop  to  go  upstairs.  She  came  right 
into  the  room  where  Will  and  I  were  reading  by  the 
cretonne-shaded  lamp. 

"I've  just  been  to  the  most  wonderful  lecture!"  she 
burst  out,  "on  suffrage !  I  never  cared  a  thing  about 
the  vote  one  way  or  the  other,  but  I  do  now.  I'm  for 
it.  Heart  and  soul,  I'm  for  it!  Oh,  the  most  won- 
derful woman  spoke.  Every  word  she  said  applied 
straight  to  me.  I  didn't  know  I  had  such  ideas  until 
that  woman  got  up  and  put  them  into  words  for  me. 
They've  been  growing  and  ripening  in  me  all  these 
years,  and  I  didn't  know  it — not  until  today.  That 
woman  said  that  sacrifices  are  made  again  and  again 
to  send  boys  to  college  and  prepare  them  to  earn  a 
living,  but  that  girls  are  brought  up  simply  to  be 
pretty  and  attractive,  so  as  to  capture  a  man  who  will 
provide  them  with  food  and  clothes.  Why,  Lucy, 
don't  you  see  that  that's  just  what  happened  in  our 


BOB  TURNS  OUT  A  CONSERVATIVE     133 

family?  We  slaved  to  send  Oliver  and  Malcolm 
through  college — but  for  you  and  for  me — what  slav- 
ing was  there  done  to  prepare  us  to  earn  a  living? 
Just  think  what  I  might  be  had  7  been  prepared  for 
life  like  Malcolm  or  Oliver,  instead  of  wasting  all  my 
years  frivoling.  Why,  don't  you  see  I  could  have 
convictions  with  a  foundation  then?  I  feel  so  help- 
less and  ignorant  with  a  really  educated  person  now. 
Oh,  dear,  I  wish  this  movement  had  been  begun  when 
I  was  a  baby,  so  I  could  have  profited  by  it!  That 
woman  said  that  when  laws  are  equal  for  men  and 
women,  then  advantages  will  be,  and  that  every  step 
we  can  make  toward  equalization  is  a  step  in  the 
direction  toward  a  fairer  deal  for  women.  Suffrage  ? 
Well,  I  should  say  I  was  for  it!  I  think  it's  wonder- 
ful. I  went  straight  up  to  that  woman  and  said  I 
wanted  to  join  the  League;  and  I  did.  It  cost  me  a 
dollar." 

"Good  heavens,  Ruth,"  exclaimed  Will  sleepily, 
from  behind  his  paper.  "Don't  you  go  and  get  rabid 
on  suffrage Ease  up,  old  girl.  Steady." 

"I  don't  see  how  any  one  can  help  but  get  rabid, 
Will,  as  you  say,  any  more  than  a  person  could  keep 
calm  if  he  was  a  slave,  when  he  first  heard  what 
Abraham  Lincoln  was  trying  to  do." 

"Steady  there,  old  girl,"  jibed  Will.  "Is  Bob  such 
a  terrific  master  as  all  that?" 

"That's  not  the  point,  Will.  Convention  is  the  mas- 
ter— that's  what  the  woman  said.  It  isn't  free  of  men 
we're  trying  to  be." 


134  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"We!  we!  Come,  Ruth.  You  aren't  one  of  them 
in  an  hour,  are  you?  Better  wait  and  consult  Bob 
first." 

"Oh,  Bob  will  agree  with  me.  I  know  he  will.  It's 
such  a  progressive  idea.  And  I  am  one  of  them.  I'm 
proud  to  be.  I'm  going  to  march  in  the  parade  next 
week." 

I  came  to  life  at  that.  "Oh,  Ruth,  not  really — not 
in  Boston !" 

"What?  Up  the  center  of  Washington  Street  in 
French  heels  and  a  shadow  veil?"  scoffed  Will. 

"Up  the  center  of  Washington  Street  in  something," 
announced  Ruth,  "if  that's  the  line  of  march.  Remem- 
ber, Will,  French  heels  and  shadow  veils  have  been 
my  stock  in  trade,  and  not  through  any  choice  of  mine, 
either.  So  don't  throw  them  at  me,  please." 

Will  subsided.  "Well,  well,  what  next?  A  raring, 
tearing  little  suffragette,  in  one  afternoon,  too!" 

Ruth  went  upstairs. 

"Poor  old  Bob,"  remarked  Will  to  me  when  we 
were  alone. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ANOTHER   CATASTROPHE 

I  DIDN'T  know  whether  it  was  more  "poor  old 
Bob"  or  "poor  old  Ruth."  Ruth  was  so  arduous 
at  first,  so  in  earnest — like  a  child  with  a  new  and 
engrossing  plaything  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then,  I 
suppose,  she  showed  her  new  toy  to  Bob,  and  he  took 
it  away  from  her.  Anyway,  she  put  it  by.  It  seemed 
rather  a  shame  to  me.  The  new  would  have  worn  off 
after  a  while. 

"And  after  all,  Will,"  I  maintained  to  my  husband, 
"Robert  Jennings  is  terribly  old-school,  sweet  and 
chivalrous  as  can  be  toward  women,  but  he  can't  treat 
Ruth  in  the  way  he  does  that  helpless  little  miniature 
of  a  mother  of  his.  He  simply  lives  to  protect  her 
from  anything  practical  or  disagreeable.  She  adores 
it,  but  Ruth's  a  different  proposition.  The  trouble 
with  Robert  is,  he's  about  ten  years  behind  the  times." 

"And  Ruth,"  commented  Will,  "is  about  ten  years 
ahead  of  the  times." 

"That  is  true  of  the  different  members  of  lots  of 
households,  in  these  times,  but  they  don't  need  to  come 
to  blows  because  of  it.  Everybody  ought  to  be  pa- 
tient and  wait.  Ruth  has  a  pronounced  individuality, 

J35 


136  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

for  all  you  think  she  is  nothing  but  a  society  butterfly. 
I  can  see  it  hurts  to  cram  it  into  Robert  Jennings' 
ideal  of  what  a  woman  should  be.  It  makes  me  feel 
badly  to  see  Ruth  so  quiet  and  resigned,  like  a  little 
beaten  thing,  so  pitiably  anxious  to  please.  Self-con- 
fidence became  her  more.  She  hasn't  mentioned  suf- 
frage since  Robert  called  and  stayed  so  late  Wednes- 
day, except  to  say  briefly,  Tm  not  going  to  march 
in  the  parade.'  'Why  not?'  I  asked.  'Doesn't  Bob 
want  you  to?'  'Oh,  certainly.  He  leaves  it  to  me,' 
she  pretended  proudly.  'But,  you  see,  women  in 
parades  do  offend  some  people.  It  isn't  according  to 
tradition,  and  I  think  it's  only  courteous  to  Bob,  just 
before  we  are  to  be  married,  not  to  do  anything  offen- 
sive. After  all,  I  must  bear  in  mind,'  she  said,  'that 
this  parade  is  only  a  matter  of  walking — putting  one 
foot  in  front  of  the  other.  I'm  bound  to  be  happy, 
and  I  don't  intend  to  allow  suffrage  to  stand  in  my 
way  either.  Even  convictions  are  only  a  certain  con- 
dition of  gray  matter.'  Oh,  it  was  just  pitiful  to  hear 
her  trying  to  convince  herself.  I'm  just  afraid,  Will, 
afraid  for  the  future." 

Not  long  after  that  outburst  of  mine  to  Will,  my 
fears  came  true.  One  late  afternoon,  white-faced, 
wide-eyed,  Ruth  came  in  to  me.  She  closed  the  door 
behind  her.  Her  outside  things  were  still  on.  I  saw 
Robert  Jennings  out  the  window  going  slowly  down 
the  walk.  Before  Ruth  spoke  I  knew  exactly  what 
she  had  to  say. 


ANOTHER  CATASTROPHE  137 

"We  aren't  going  to  be  married,"  she  half  whis- 
pered to  me. 

"Oh,  Ruth " 

"No.  Please.  Don't,  don't  talk  about  it,"  she  said. 
"And  don't  tell  Will.  Don't  tell  any  one.  Promise 
me.  I've  tried  so  hard — so  hard.  But  my  life  has 
spoiled  me  for  a  man  like  Bob.  Don't  talk  of  it, 
please." 

"I  won't,  Ruth,"  I  assured  her. 

"I  can  do  it.  I  thought  I  couldn't  at  first.  But  I 
can!"  she  said  fiercely,  "I  can!  I'll  be  misunderstood, 
I  know.  But  I  can't  help  that.  We've  decided  it  to- 
gether. It  isn't  I  alone.  Bob  has  decided  it,  too.  We 
both  prefer  to  be  unhappy  alone,  rather  than  unhappy 
together." 

"In  every  marriage,  readjustments  are  necessary/* 
I  commented. 

"Don't  argue,"  she  burst  out  at  me.  "Don't!  Don't 
you  suppose  Bob  and  I  have  thought  of  every  argu- 
ment that  exists  to  save  our  happiness  ?  For  heaven's 
sake,  Lucy,  don't  argue.  I  can't  quite  bear  it."  She 
turned  away  and  went  upstairs. 

She  didn't  want  any  dinner.  "I'm  going  to  bed 
early,"  she  told  me  an  hour  later  when  I  knocked  at 
her  door.  "No,  not  even  toast  and  tea.  Please  don't 
urge  me,"  she  begged,  and  I  left  her.  At  ten  when  I 
went  to  bed  her  room  was  dark. 

At  half -past  eleven  I  got  up,  stole  across  the  hall, 
and  stood  listening  outside  her  closed  door.  At  long 
intervals  I  could  hear  her  move.  She  was  not  sleep- 


138  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

ing.  I  waited  an  hour  and  stole  across  the  hall  again. 
She  was  still  awake.  Poor  Ruth — sleepless,  tearless 
(there  was  no  sound  of  sobbing)  hour  after  hour, 
there  she  was  lying  all  night  long,  staring  into  the 
darkness,  waiting  for  the  dawn.  At  three  I  opened 
the  door  gently  and  went  in,  carrying  something  hot 
to  drink  on  a  tray. 

"What  is  the  matter  ?"  she  asked  calmly. 

"Nothing,  Ruth.  Only  you  must  sleep,  and  here  is 
some  hot  milk  with  just  a  little  pinch  of  salt.  It's  so 
flat  without.  Nobody  can  sleep  on  an  empty  stomach." 

"I  guess  that's  the  trouble,"  she  said,  and  sat  up 
and  took  the  milk  humbly,  like  a  child.  Her  finger- 
tips were  like  ice.  I  went  into  the  bathroom,  filled  a 
hot-water  bag,  and  got  out  an  extra  down-comforter. 
I  was  tucking  it  in  when  she  asked,  "What  time  is 
it?"  And  I  told  her.  "Only  three?  Oh,  dear— don't 
go — just  yet."  So  I  wrapped  myself  up  in  a  warm 
flannel  wrapper  and  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  her  bed 
with  my  feet  drawn  up  under  me. 

"I  won't,"  I  said,  "I'll  sit  here." 

"You're  awfully  good  to  me,"  Ruth  remarked.  "I 
was  cold  and  hungry,  I  guess.  Oh,  Lucy,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "I  wish  one  person  could  understand,  just 
one." 

"I  do,  Ruth.     I  do  understand,"  I  said  eagerly. 

"It  isn't  suffrage.  It  isn't  the  parade.  It  isn't  any 
one  thing.  It's  just  everything,  Lucy.  I'm  made  up 
on  a  wrong  pattern  for  Bob.  I  hurt  him  all  the  time. 


ANOTHER  CATASTROPHE  139 

Isn't  it  awful — even  though  he  cares  for  me,  and  I 
for  him,  we  hurt  each  other?" 

I  kept  quite  still.  I  knew  that  Ruth  wanted  to  talk 
to  some  one,  and  I  sat  there  hugging  my  knees,  thank- 
ful that  I  happened  to  be  the  one.  Always  I  had 
longed  for  this  mysterious  sister's  confidence,  and  al- 
ways I  had  seemed  to  her  too  simple,  too  obvious,  to 
share  and  understand. 

"You  know,  Lucy,"  she  went  on  wistfully,  "I  was 
awfully  happy  at  first — so  happy — you  don't  know. 
Why,  I  would  do  anything  for  Bob.  I  was  glad  to 
give  up  riches  for  him.  My  worldly  ambitions  shriv- 
eled into  nothing.  Comforts,  luxuries — what  were 
they  as  compared  to  Bob's  love?  But,  oh,  Lucy,  it  is 
giving  up  little  things,  little  independencies  of  thought, 
little  daily  habits,  which  I  can't  do.  I  tried  to  give 
up  these,  too.  You  know  I  did.  I  said  that  the  book 
was  just  paper  and  print  and  the  cards  just  paste- 
board. But  all  the  time  they  were  symbols.  I  could 
destroy  the  symbols  easily  enough,  but  I  couldn't  de- 
stroy what  they  stood  for.  You  see,  Bob  and  I  have 
different  ideals.  That's  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  trou- 
ble. We  tried  for  weeks  not  to  admit  it,  but  it  had 
to  be  faced  finally." 

"Your  ideals  aren't  very  different  way  down  at 
their  roots — both  clean,  true,  sincere,  and  all  that," 
I  said,  with  a  little  yawn,  so  she  might  not  guess  how 
tremblingly  concerned  I  really  was. 

"You  don't  know  all  the  differences,  Lucy,"  she  said 
sadly.  "There's  something  the  trouble  with  me — 


HAHOLD  A.  {MCDONALD, 


140  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

something  left  out — something  that  I  cannot  blame 
Bob  for  feeling  sorry  about.  I  believe  I'll  tell  you. 
You  see,  Bob  met  me  under  a  misapprehension,  and 
I've  been  trying  to  live  up  to  his  misapprehension  ever 
since.  The  first  time  he  ever  saw  me  I  was  tucked 
away  in  a  little  room  by  myself  looking  at  the  picture 
of  a  sick  child.  I  was  crying  a  little.  He  thought  that 
I  was  feeling  badly  out  of  sympathy  for  the  mother 
of  the  child — the  mother  in  me,  you  see,  speaking  to 
the  mother  in  her.  I  wasn't  really.  I  was  crying  be- 
cause the  house  that  the  picture  happened  to  hang  in 
was  so  dull  and  grimy  beside  Grassmere.  I  was  cry- 
ing for  the  luxuries  I  had  lost.  I  never  told  Bob  the 
truth  about  that  picture  until  last  week,  and  all  this 
time  he's  been  looking  upon  me  as  an  ideal  woman — 
a  kind  of  madonna,  mother  of  little  children,  you 
understand,  and  all  that — and  I'm  not.  Something 
must  be  wrong  with  me.  I  don't  even  long  to  be — yet. 
Oh,  you  see  how  unfitted  I  am  for  a  man  to  weave 
idealistic  pictures  about — like  that.  It  seemed  to  hurt 
Bob  when  I  told  him  the  truth  about  myself,  hurt  him 
terribly,  as  if  I'd  tumbled  over  and  broken  his  image 
of  me — at  the  cradle,  you  know.  Oh,  Lucy,  what  an 
unnatural  girl  I  am!  I  don't  admire  myself  for  it. 
I  wish  I  could  be  what  Bob  thinks,  but  I  can't.  I 
can't." 

"You  aren't  unnatural.  You're  just  as  human  as 
you  can  be,  Ruth.  I  felt  just  the  way  you  do  before 
I  was  married,  and  most  every  girl  does  as  young  as 
you,  too.  Bob  ought  to  give  you  chance  to  grow  up." 


ANOTHER  CATASTROPHE          141 

"Grow  up!  Oh,  Lucy,  I  feel  so  old!  I  feel  used 
up  and  put  by  already.  I've  lived  my  life  and  haven't 
I  made  a  botch  of  it?"  She  laughed  shortly.  "And 
what  shall  I  do  with  the  botch  now  ?  I  can't  stay  here. 
It  would  break  my  heart  to  stay  here  where  I  had 
hoped  to  be  so  happy — everything  reminding  me,  you 
know.  No,  I  can't  stay  here." 

"Of  course  you  can't,  Ruth.  We'll  think  of  a  way." 
"And  I  simply  can't  go  back  to  Edith,"  she  went  on, 
"after  knowing  Bob.  I  don't  want  to  go  out  to  Mich- 
igan with  Tom  and  Elise.  I  hate  Michigan.  Dear 
me !  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I'm  discouraged. 
Once  I  was  eager  and  confident,  filled  with  enthusiasm 
and  self-pride.  Like  that  old  hymn,  you  know.  How 
does  it  go?  'I  loved  to  choose  my  path  and  see,  but 
now  lead  Thou  me  on.  I  loved  the  garish  day,  and 
spite  of  fears,  Pride  ruled  my  will.  Remember  not 
past  years.'  That  is  what  I  repeat  over  and  over  to 
myself.  'Lead,  kindly  light,  amidst  th'  encircling 
gloom.'  The  encircling  gloom !  Oh,  dear!"  She  sud- 
denly broke  off,  "I  wish  morning  would  come."  It 
did  finally,  and  with  it,  when  the  approaching  sun 
began  to  pinken  the  eastern  sky,  sleep  for  my  tor- 
mented sister. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A   FAMILY    CONFERENCE 

WE  all  were  seated  about  the  table  at  one  of 
Edith's  sumptuous  Sunday  dinners  at  the 
Homestead  when  Ruth  broke  her  news  to  the  family. 
Tom  had  come  East  on  a  business  trip,  and  was  spend- 
ing Sunday  with  Alec  in  Hilton ;  so  Edith  telephoned 
to  all  of  us  within  motoring  distance  and  invited  us  up 
for  "Sunday  dinner."  This  was  two  or  three  days 
after  Ruth  had  told  me  that  she  and  Bob  were  not  to 
be  married. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'll  go,"  she  nodded,  when  I  had  clapped 
my  hand  over  the  receiver  and  turned  to  her  question- 
ingly,  and  afterward  she  said  to  me,  "Concealing  my 
feelings  is  one  of  the  accomplishments  my  education 
has  included.  I'll  go.  I  shan't  tell  them  about  Bob 
yet.  I  can't  seem  to  just  now." 

I  was  therefore  rather  surprised  when  she  suddenly 
abandoned  her  play-acting.  She  hadn't  figured  on  the 
difficult  requirements,  I  suppose,  poor  child.  Bluff  and 
genial  Tom,  grown  rather  gray  and  stout  and  bald 
now,  had  met  her  with  a  hearty,  "Hello,  bride-elect !" 
Oliver  had  shouted,  "Greetings,  Mrs.  Prof!"  And 
Madge,  his  wife,  had  tucked  a  tissue-paper-wrapped 

142 


A  FAMILY  CONFERENCE  143 

package  under  Ruth's  arm:  "My  engagement  pres- 
ent," she  explained.  "Just  a  half-a-dozen  little  guest- 
towels  with  your  initials." 

Later  at  the  table  Tom  had  cleared  his  throat  and 
then  remarked,  "I  like  all  I  hear  of  this  Robert  Jen- 
nings. He's  good  stuff,  Ruth.  You've  worried  us  a 
good  deal,  but  you've  landed  on  your  feet  squareiy  at 
last.  He's  a  bully  chap." 

"And  he's  got  a  bully  girl,  too,  now  that  she's  got 
down  to  brass  tacks,"  said  Alec  in  big-brother  style. 

"Decided  on  the  date?"  cheerfully  inquired  Tom. 
"Elise  said  to  be  sure  and  find  out.  We're  coming  on 
in  full  force,  you  know." 

"Yes,  the  date's  decided,"  flashed  Edith  from  the 
head  of  the  table.  "June  28th.  It'll  be  hot  as  mus- 
tard, but  Hilton  will  be  lovely  then,  and  all  the  sum- 
merites  here.  You  must  give  me  an  hour  on  the  lists 
after  dinner,  Kidlet.  Bob's  list,  people,  is  three  hun- 
dred, and  Ruth's  four,  so  I  guess  there'll  be  a  few  little 
remembrances.  The  envelopes  are  half  directed  al- 
ready. I  want  you  people  to  know  this  wedding  is 
only  seven  weeks  off,  so  hurry  up  and  order  your  new 
gowns  and  morning  coats.  Simplicity  isn't  going  to 
be  the  keynote  of  this  affair." 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  Tom  abruptly,  "I  haven't  in- 
spected the  ring  yet.  Let's  see  it.  Pass  it  over, 
Toots." 

Ruth  glanced  down  at  her  hand.  It  was  still  there — 
Bob's  unpretentious  diamond  set  in  platinum — shining 
wistfully  on  Ruth's  third  finger. 


144  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

She  started  to  take  it  off,  then  stopped  and  glanced 
over  at  me.  "I  think  I'll  tell  them,  Lucy,"  she  said. 
"I've  got  something  to  tell  you  all,"  she  announced. 
"I'm  wearing  the  ring  still,  but — we've  broken  our 
engagement.  I'm  not  going  to  marry  Robert  Jennings 
after  all." 

It  sounded  harsh,  crude.  Everybody  stared ;  every- 
body stopped  eating;  I  saw  Tom  lay  down  his  fork 
with  a  juicy  piece  of  duck  on  it.  It  had  been  within 
two  inches  of  his  mouth. 

"Will  you  repeat  that?"  he  said  emphatically. 

"Yes,"  complied  Ruth,  "I  will.  I  know  it  seems 
sudden  to  you.  I  meant  to  write  it,  but  after  all  I 
might  as  well  tell  you.  My  engagement  to  Robert 
Jennings  is  broken." 

"Is  this  a  joke?"  ejaculated  Edith. 

"No,"  replied  Ruth,  still  in  that  calm,  composed  way 
of  hers.  "No,  Edith,  it  isn't  a  joke." 

"Will  you  explain?"  demanded  Tom,  shoving  the 
piece  of  duck  off  his  fork  and  abandoning  it  for  good 
and  all. 

Ruth  had  become  pale.  "Why,  there  isn't  much  to 
explain,  except  I  found  out  I  wouldn't  be  happy  with 
Bob.  That's  all." 

"Oh,"  said  Tom,  "you  found  out  you  wouldn't  be 
happy  with  Bob!  Will  you  kindly  tell  us  whom  you 
mean  to  try  your  happiness  on  next?" 

Ruth's  gray  eyes  darkened.  A  little  pink  stole  into 
her  cheeks.  "There's  no  good  of  your  using  that  tone 
with  me,  Tom,"  she  said. 


A  FAMILY  CONFERENCE  145 

"Did  you  know  this?"  asked  Will  of  me  from  across 
the  table. 

I  nodded. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  it's  true?"  demanded  Edith. 

I  nodded  again. 

"You're  crazy,  Ruth,"  she  burst  out,  "you're  simply 
stark  mad.  It  would  be  a  public  disgrace.  You've  got 
to  marry  him  now.  You've  simply  got  to.  It's  worse 
than  a  divorce.  Why — the  invitations  are  all  ordered, 
even  the  refreshments.  The  whole  world  knows  about 
it.  You've  got  to  marry  him." 

"My  own  disgrace  is  my  own  affair,  I  guess,"  said 
Ruth,  dangerously  low. 

"It's  not  your  own  affair.  It's  ours ;  it's  the  whole 
family's;  it's  mine.  And  I  won't  stand  it — not  a  sec- 
ond time.  Here  I  have  told  everybody,  got  my  Boston 
list  all  made  up,  too,  and  all  my  plans  made.  Didn't  I 
have  new  lights  put  into  the  ballroom  especially,  and  a 
lot  of  repairs  made  on  the  house — a  new  bathroom, 
and  everything?  And  all  my  house-party  guests  in- 
vited? Why — we'll  be  the  laughing-stock  of  this  en- 
tire town,  if  you  play  this  game  a  second  time.  Good 
heavens,  you'll  be  getting  the  habit.  No,  sir!  You 
can't  go  back  on  your  word  in  this  fashion.  You've 
got  to  marry  Robert  Jennings  now." 

"I  wouldn't  marry  Breck  Sewall  to  please  you, 
Edith,  and  I  won't  marry  Robert  Jennings  to  please 
you  either,"  said  Ruth.  "She  wanted  me  to  elope  with 
Breck!"  she  announced  calmly. 

"That  isn't  true,"  replied  Edith  sharply. 


146  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Why  don't  you  call  me  a  liar  and  have  done  with 
it?"  demanded  Ruth. 

"I  wanted  to  save  you  from  disgrace,  and  you  know 
it  I  wanted "  A  maid  came  in. 

"Let  us  wait  and  continue  this  conversation  later," 
remarked  Tom. 

"We  don't  want  you''  flared  Edith  at  the  maid.  "I 
didn't  ring.  Go  out  till  you're  summoned.  You're  the 
most  ungrateful  girl  I  ever  knew,  Ruth.  You're " 

"Come,"  interrupted  Alec.  "This  isn't  getting  any- 
where. Let  us  finish  dinner  first." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  want  any  more  dinner,"  said  Edith. 

"Nor  I,"  commented  Ruth,  with  a  shrug. 

There  were  a  salad  fork  and  a  dessert  spoon  still 
untouched  beside  our  plates.  It  would  have  been 
thoughtful  if  Ruth  had  waited  and  lit  her  fuse  when 
the  finger-bowls  came  on.  It  seemed  a  shame  to  me 
to  waste  two  perfectly  good  courses,  and  unnecessarily 
sensational  to  interrupt  the  ceremony  of  a  Sunday  din- 
ner. But  it  was  impossible  to  sit  there  through  two 
protracted  changes  of  plates. 

"I  guess  we've  all  had  enough,"  remarked  Tom,  dis- 
gustedly shoving  away  that  innocent  piece  of  duck. 
We  rose  stragglingly. 

"I  don't  care  to  talk  about  this  thing  any  more," 
said  Ruth,  as  we  passed  through  the  hall.  "You  can 
thrash  it  out  by  yourselves.  Lucy,  you  can  represent 
me!"  And  she  turned  away  to  go  upstairs. 

Tom  called  back,  "No,  Ruth.  This  is  an  occasion 
that  requires  your  presence,  whether  you  like  it  or 


A  FAMILY  CONFERENCE  147 

not,"  he  said.  "Come  back,  please.  There  are  a  few 
questions  that  need  to  be  settled." 

Ruth  acquiesced  condescendingly.  "Oh,  very  well," 
she  replied,  and  strolled  down  the  stairs  and  into  the 
library.  She  walked  over  to  the  table  and  leaned,  half 
sitting,  against  it,  while  the  rest  of  us  came  in  and  sat 
down,  and  some  one  closed  the  doors. 

"Fire  away!"  she  said  flippantly,  turning  to  Tom. 
She  picked  up  an  ivory  paper-cutter  with  a  tassel  on 
one  end,  twisted  the  cord  tight,  and  then  holding  the 
cutter  up  by  the  tassel  watched  it  whirl  and  untwist. 

Pretty,  graceful,  nonchalant,  armored  in  a  half 
smile,  Ruth  stood  before  her  inquisitors.  Bob  never 
would  have  recognized  this  composed  and  unmoved 
girl  as  the  anxious  Ruth  who  had  tried  so  hard  to 
please  and  satisfy. 

"First,"  began  Tom  (he  has  always  held  the  position 
of  high  judge  in  our  family),  "first,  I  should  be  inter- 
ested to  know  if  you  have  any  plans  for  the  future, 
and,  if  so,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  us  what  they 
may  be." 

"I  have  plans,"  said  Ruth,  and  began  twisting  the 
cord  of  the  paper-cutter  again. 

"Will  you  put  that  down,  please,"  requested  Tom. 

"Certainly,"  Ruth  smiled  over-obi igingly  and  laid 
the  paper-cutter  on  the  table.  She  folded  her  arms  and 
began  tapping  the  rug  with  her  toe.  She  was  almost 
insolent. 

"Well,  then — what  are  your  plans?"  fired  Tom  at 
her  with  an  obvious  effort  to  control  himself. 


148  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"New  York,"  she  announced  mysteriously. 

"Oh,  New  York!"  repeated  Tom.  It  was  a  scorn- 
ful voice.  "New  York !  And  what  do  you  intend  to 
do  in  New  York?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  decided.  Some- 
thing," she  said  airily. 

"Ruth,"  said  Tom,  "please  listen  to  me  carefully  if 
you  can  for  a  minute.  We've  always  given  you  a 
pretty  loose  rein.  Haven't  we?" 

Ruth  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You've  had  every  advantage;  attended  one  of  the 
most  expensive  schools  in  this  country;  had  all  the 
money  you  required,  coming-out  party  and  all  that; 
pleasures,  flattery,  attention — everything  to  make  a 
girl  contented.  You've  visited  any  one  you  pleased 
from  one  end  of  the  United  States  to  the  other ;  trav- 
eled in  Europe,  Florida — anywhere  you  wanted ;  come 
and  gone  at  will.  Nothing  to  handicap  you.  Nothing 
hard.  Nothing  difficult.  You'll  agree.  And  what 
have  you  done  with  your  advantages  ?  What — I  want 
to  know?" 

Ruth  shrugged  her  shoulders  again. 

"You  can't  blame  any  one  but  yourself.  You 
haven't  been  interfered  with.  I  believed  in  letting  you 
run  your  own  affairs.  Thought  you  were  made  of  the 
right  stuff  to  do  it  creditably.  I  was  mistaken. 
You've  had  a  fair  trial  at  your  own  management  and 
you've  failed  to  show  satisfactory  results.  Now  I'm 
going  to  step  in.  I'm  going  to  see  if  /  can  save  you 
from  this  drifting  about  and  getting  nowhere.  I  don't 


A  FAMILY  CONFERENCE  149 

ask  you  to  go  back  and  anchor  with  Robert  Jennings 
again.  I'm  shocked  to  confess  that  I  don't  believe 
you're  worthy  of  a  man  like  Jennings.  It  is  no  small 
thing  to  be  decided  carelessly  or  frivolously — this  mat- 
ter of  marriage.  Engaged  to  two  men  inside  of  one 
year,  and  now  both  affairs  broken  off.  It's  disgrace- 
ful! You've  got  to  learn  somehow  or  other  that  al- 
though you  are  a  woman,  you're  not  especially  privi- 
leged to  go  back  on  decisions." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  especially  privileged,"  said  Ruth, 
and  then  she  added,  "special  privileges  would  not  be 
expected  by  women,  if  they  were  given  equal  rights." 

"Oh,  Suffrage!  !  !"  exclaimed  Tom  with  three  ex- 
clamation points.  "So  that's  it !  That's  at  the  bottom 
of  all  this  trouble." 

"That's  at  the  bottom  of  it,"  suddenly  put  in  my 
husband,  emphatically. 

"Oh,  I  see.  Well,  first,  Ruth,  you're  to  drop  all 
that  nonsense.  Suffrage  indeed !  What  do  you  know 
about  it?  You  ought  to  be  married  and  taking  care 
of  your  own  babies,  and  you  wouldn't  be  disturbed 
by  all  these  crazy-headed  fads,  invented  by  dissatisfied 
and  unoccupied  females.  Suffrage !  And  perhaps  you 
think  that  this  latest  exhibition  of  your  changeable- 
ness  and  vacillation  is  an  argument  in  favor  of  it." 

"You  needn't  throw  women's  vacillation  in  their 
faces,  Tom,"  replied  Ruth  calmly.  "Stable  decisions 
are  matters  of  training  and  education.  Girls  of  my 
acquaintance  lack  the  experience  with  the  business 
world.  They  don't  come  in  contact  with  big  transac- 


150  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

tions.  They're  guarded  from  them.  A  lawyer  does 
the  thinking  for  a  woman  of  property  oftentimes,  and 
so,  of  course,  women  do  not  learn  the  necessity  of 
precise  statements,  accurate  thought,  and  all  that. 
From  the  time  a  girl  is  old  enough  to  think  she  knows 
she  is  just  a  girl,  who  her  family  hope  will  grow  up  to 
be  pretty  and  attractive  and  marry  well.  If  her  family 
believed  she  was  to  grow  up  into  a  responsible  citizen 
who  would  later  control  by  her  vote  all  sorts  of 
weighty  questions  that  affect  taxes  and  tariffs  and 
things,  they  would  have  to  devote  more  thought  to 
making  her  intelligent,  because  it  would  have  an  effect 
upon  their  individual  interests.  I'm  interested  in  suf- 
frage, Tom,  not  for  the  good  it  is  going  to  do  politics, 
but  for  the  good  it's  going  to  do  women." 

Tom  made  an  exclamation  of  disgust.  He  was  be- 
side himself  with  scorn  and  disapproval. 

"Nonsense!  Utter  rot!  Women  were  made  to 
marry  and  be  mothers.  Women  were " 

"But  we'd  be  better  mothers,"  Ruth  cut  in.  "Don't 
you  see,  if " 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  discuss  suffrage,"  interrupted 
Tom;  "I  want  to  discuss  your  life.  Let's  keep  to  the 
subject.  I  want  to  see  you  settled  and  happy  some 
-day,  and  as  I'm  so  much  older  than  you,  you  must  put 
yourself  into  my  hands,  and  cheerfully.  First,  drop 
suffrage.  Drop  it.  Good  Lord,  Ruth,  don't  be  a  fad- 
dist. Then  I  want  you  to  lay  your  decision  about 
Jennings  on  the  shelf.  Let  it  rest  for  a  while.  Post- 
pone the  wedding  if  you  wish " 


A  FAMILY  CONFERENCE  151 

"But,  Tom,"  tucked  in  Edith,  "that's  impossible. 
The  invitations " 

"Never  mind,  never  mind,  Edith,"  interrupted  Tom. 
Then  to  Ruth  he  went  on.  "Postpone  the  wedding — 
oh,  say  a  month  or  two,  and  then  see  how  you  feel. 
That's  all  I  ask.  Reasonable,  isn't  it?"  he  appealed  to 
us  all.  "I'll  have  a  talk  with  Jennings  in  the  mean- 
while," he  went  on.  "This  suffrage  tommy-rot  is 
working  all  sorts  of  unnecessary  havoc.  I'm  sick  of 
it.  I  didn't  suppose  it  had  caught  any  one  in  our 
family  though.  You  drop  it,  Ruth,  for  a  while.  You 
wait.  I'm  going  back  home  next  Wednesday.  Now  I 
want  you  to  pack  up  your  things  and  be  ready  to  start 
with  me  Wednesday  night  from  New  York.  We'll  see 
what  Elise  and  the  youngsters  will  do  for  you." 

"I'm  sorry,  Tom,"  replied  Ruth  pleasantly,  "but  my 
decision  about  Bob  is  final ;  and  as  for  going  out  West 
with  you  and  becoming  a  fifth  wheel  in  your  house- 
hold— no,  I've  had  enough  of  that.  My  mind  is  made 
up.  I'm  going  to  New  York." 

"But  I  shan't  allow  it,"  announced  Tom. 

"Then,"  replied  Ruth,  "I  shall  have  to  go  without 
your  allowing  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Tom. 

"Why — just  what  I  say.  I'm  of  age.  If  I  were  a 
man,  I  wouldn't  have  to  ask  my  older  brother's  per- 
mission." 

"And  how  do  you  intend  to  live?" 

"On  my  income,"  said  Ruth.  "I  bless  father  now 
for  that  stock  he  left  me.  Eight  hundred  dollars  a 


152  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

year  has  been  small  for  me  so  far.  I  have  had  to  have 
help,  I  know,  but  it  will  support  my  new  life.  I  never 
was  really  grateful  to  father  for  that  money  till  now. 
It  makes  me  independent  of  you,  Tom." 

Edith,  glaring  inimically  from  her  corner,  ex- 
claimed, "Grateful  to  her  father!  That's  good!" 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  Tom,  "we've  never  told  you 
before,  because  we  hoped  to  spare  your  feelings,  but 
the  time  has  come  now.  That  stock  father  left  you 
hasn't  paid  a  dividend  for  a  dozen  years.  It  isn't 
worth  its  weight  in  paper.  I  have  paid  four  hundred 
dollars,  and  Edith  has  been  kind  and  generous  enough 
to  contribute  four  hundred  dollars  more,  to  keep  you 
in  carfares,  young  lady.  It  isn't  much  in  order  to 
talk  of  your  independence  around  here." 

The  color  mounted  to  Ruth's  cheeks.  She  straight- 
ened. "What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Exactly  what  I  say.  "You  haven't  a  penny  of  in- 
come. Edith  and  I  are  responsible  for  your  living,  and 
I  want  you  to  understand  clearly  that  I  shall  not  sup- 
port a  line  of  conduct  which  does  not  meet  with  my 
approval.  Nor  Edith  either,  I  rather  imagine." 

"No,  indeed,  I  won't,"  snapped  out  Edith.  "I 
shan't  pay  a  cent  more.  It's  only  rank  ingratitude  I 
get  for  it  anyhow." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Ruth  in  a  low  voice — 
there  was  no  flippancy  to  her  now — "I've  been  living 
on  Edith's  charity,  and  yours,  all  these  years  ?  That  I 
haven't  anything  of  my  own — not  even  my  clothes — 
not  even  this,"  she  touched  a  blue  enameled  watch  and 


A  FAMILY  CONFERENCE  153 

chain  about  her  neck,  "which  I  saved  and  saved  so  for  ? 
Haven't  I  any  income  ?  Haven't  I  a  cent  that's  mine, 
Tom?" 

"Not  a  red  cent,  Ruth — just  some  papers  that  we 
might  as  well  put  into  the  fire-place  and  burn  up." 

"Oh,"  she  burst  forth,  "how  unfair — how  cruel  and 
unfair!" 

"There's  gratitude  for  you,"  threw  in  Edith. 

"To  bring  me  up,"  went  on  Ruth,  "under  a  de- 
lusion. To  let  me  go  on,  year  after  year,  thinking  I 
was  provided  for,  and  then  suddenly,  when  it  pleases 
you,  to  tell  me  that  I'm  an  absolute  dependent,  a  crea- 
ture of  charity.  Oh,  how  cruel  that  is !  You  tell  me 
I  ought  to  be  grateful.  Well,  I'm  not — I'm  not  grate- 
ful. You've  been  false  with  me.  You've  brought  me 
up  useless  and  helpless.  I'm  too  old  now  to  develop 
whatever  talent  I  may  have  had.  I  can  only  drudge 
now.  What  is  there  I  can  do  now?  Nothing — noth- 
ing— except  scrub  floors  or  something  like  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is,  too,"  said  Edith.  "You  can 
marry  Robert  Jennings  and  be  sensible." 

"Marry  a  man  for  support,  whether  I  want  to  or 
not?  I'll  die  first.  You  all  want  me  to  marry  him,"' 
she  burst  out  at  us  fiercely,  "but  I  shan't — I  shan't. 
I'm  strong  and  healthy,  and  I'm  just  beginning  to  dis- 
cover that  I've  got  some  brains,  too.  There's  some- 
thing I  can  do,  surely,  some  way  I  can  earn  money. 
I  shan't  go  West  with  you,  Tom.  Understand  that. 
I  can't  quite  see  myself  growing  old  in  all  your  various 
households — old  and  useless  and  dependent  like  lots 


154  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

of  unmarried  women  in  large  families.  I  can't  see  it 
without  a  fight  anyhow.  I  don't  care  if  I  haven't  any 
income.  I  can  be  a  clerk  in  a  store,  I  guess.  Anyhow 
I  shan't  go  West  with  you,  Tom.  I  am  of  age.  You 
can't  make  me.  I  know  I'm  just  a  woman,  but  I  intend 
to  live  my  own  life  just  the  same,  and  there's  no  one 
in  this  world  who  can  bind  and  enslave  me  either!" 

"You  go  upstairs,  Ruth,"  ordered  Tom.  "I  won't 
stand  for  such  talk  as  that.  You  go  upstairs  and  quiet 
down,  and  when  you're  reasonable,  we'll  talk  again. 
We're  not  children." 

"No,  we're  not,"  replied  Ruth,  "neither  of  us,  and 
I  shan't  be  sent  upstairs  as  if  I  was  a  child  either! 
You  can  pauperize  me,  and  you  can  take  away  every 
rag  I  have  on  my  back,  too,  if  you  want  to,  but  I'll 
tell  you  one  thing,'  you  can't  take  away  my  independ- 
ence. You  think,  Tom,  you  can  frighten  me,  and  con- 
quer me,  perhaps,  by  bullying.  But  you  can't.  Con- 
ditions are  better  for  women  than  they  used  to  be, 
anyhow,  thank  heaven,  and  for  the  courageous  woman 
there's  a  chance  to  escape  from  just  such  masters  of 
their  fates  as  you — Tom  Vars,  even  though  you  are 
my  brother.  And  I  shall  escape  somehow,  sometime. 
See  if  I  don't.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  all  think  of  me," 
she  broke  off.  "You  all  think  I'm  hard  and  heartless. 
Well — perhaps  you're  right.  I  guess  I  am.  Such  an 
experience  as  this  would  just  about  kill  any  soft- 
hearted person,  I  should  think.  But  I'm  not  killed. 
Remember  that,  Tom.  You've  got  money,  support, 
sentiment  on  your  side.  I've  got  nothing  but  my  own 


A  FAMILY  CONFERENCE  155 

determination.  But  I'm  not  afraid  to  fight.  And  I 
will,  if  you  force  me.  You'd  better  be  pretty  careful 
how  you  handle  such  an  utterly  depraved  person  as 
you  seem  to  think  I  am.  Why,  I  didn't  know  you  had 
such  a  poor  opinion  of  me." 

She  gave  a  short  little  laugh  which  ended  in  a  sort 
of  sob.  I  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  cry  before  us. 
But  the  armor  was  at  hand.  She  put  it  on  quickly, 
the  cynical  smile,  the  nonchalant  air. 

"There  is  no  good  talking  any  more,  as  I  see,"  she 
was  able  to  go  on,  thus  protected.  "This  is  bordering 
on  a  scene,  and  scenes  are  such  bad  taste !  I'm  going 
into  the  living-room." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  the  door.  'You  all  can  go 
on  maligning  me  to  your  hearts'  content.  I've  had 
about  enough,  thank  you.  Only  remember  supper  is 
at  seven,  and  Edith's  maids  want  to  get  out  early 
Sundays.  Consider  the  maids  at  least,"  she  finished, 
and  left  us,  colors  flying. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

RUTH   GOES   TO   NEW   YORK 

THE  next  morning  when  Will  and  I  motored 
home  we  were  alone.  We  approached  the 
steeples  of  our  town  about  noontime.  I  remember 
whistles  were  blowing  and  bells  ringing  as  we  passed 
through  the  Square.  We  saw  Robert  Jennings  com- 
ing out  of  one  of  the  University  buildings  on  his  way 
home  from  a  late  morning  recitation.  We  slowed 
down  beside  him,  and  Will  sang  out  to  him  to  pile  in 
behind;  which  he  did,  leaning  forward  and  chatting 
volubly  with  Will  and  me  for  the  next  ten  minutes 
about  a  new  starter  device  for  an  automobile.  When 
Will  stopped  in  front  of  our  walk,  Robert  hopped  out 
of  his  back  seat  and  opened  the  door  for  me. 

It  was  when  Will  had  motored  out  of  hearing  that 
Robert  turned  sharply  to  me  and  asked,  "Did  you 
leave  her  in  Hilton?" 

"No,  Bob,  Ruth  isn't  in  Hilton.  She's  gone  to  New 
York,"  I  told  him  gently. 

"Whom  is  she  staying  with  in  New  York?  Your 
brother?"  he  asked. 

"No,  not  Malcolm.     No.     But  she's  all  right." 

"What  do  you  mean — 'she's  all  right'  ?" 
156 


RUTH  GOES  TO  NEW  YORK       157 

"Oh,  I  mean  she  has  money  enough — and  all  that." 

"She  isn't  alone  in  New  York!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You  don't  mean  to  say " 

"Now,  Bob,  don't  you  go  and  get  excited  about  it. 
Ruth's  all  right.  I'm  just  about  worn  out  persuading 
my  brother  Tom  that  it  is  perfectly  all  right  for  Ruth 
to  go  to  New  York  for  a  little  while  if  she  wants  to. 
I  can't  begin  arguing  with  you,  the  minute  I  get  home. 
I'm  all  worn  out  on  the  subject." 

"But  what  is  she  doing  down  there?  Whom  is  she 
visiting?  Who  is  looking  out  for  her?  Who  went 
with  her?  Who  met  her?" 

"Nobody,  nobody.  Nobody  met  her;  nobody  went 
with  her;  she  isn't  visiting  anybody.  Good  heavens, 
Bob,  you'd  make  a  helpless,  simpering  little  idiot  out 
of  Ruth  if  you  had  your  way.  She  isn't  a  child.  She 
isn't  an  inexperienced  young  girl.  She's  capable  of 
keeping  out  of  silly  difficulties.  She  can  be  trusted. 
Let  her  use  her  judgment  and  good  sense  a  little.  It 
won't  hurt  her  a  bit.  It  will  do  her  good.  Don't  you 
worry  about  Ruth.  She's  all  right." 

"But  a  girl — a  pretty  young  girl  like  Ruth — you 
don't  mean  to  say  that  Ruth — Ruth " 

"Yes,  I  do,  too,  Bob!  And  there  are  lots  of  girls 
just  as  pretty  as  Ruth  in  New  York,  and  just  as 
young,  tapping  away  at  typewriters,  and  balancing 
accounts  in  offices,  and  running  shops  of  their  own, 
too,  in  perfect  safety.  You're  behind  the  times,  Bob. 
I  don't  want  to  be  horrid,  but  really  I'm  tired,  and  if 


158  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

you  stay  here  and  talk  to  me,  I  warn  you  I'm  going 
to  be  cross." 

We  were  in  the  house  now.  Bob  had  followed  me 
in.  I  was  taking  off  my  things.  He  stared  at  me  as 
I  proceeded. 

"I  didn't  see  any  sense  at  all  in  your  breaking  off 
your  engagement,"  I  went  on.  "You  both  cared  for 
each  other.  I  should  have  thought " 

"It  was  inevitable,"  cut  in  Bob  gravely.  "It  was 
inevitable,  Lucy." 

"Well,  then,  if  it  was,  Bob,  all  right.  I  won't  say 
another  word  about  it.  But  now  that  Ruth  is  nothing 
to  you " 

"Nothing  to  me !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  said — nothing  to  you,"  I  re- 
peated mercilessly,  "I  beg  of  you  don't  come  here  and 
show  approval  or  disapproval  about  what  she's  up  to. 
Leave  her  to  me  now.  I'm  backing  her.  I  tell  you, 
just  as  I  told  Tom  and  the  others,  she's  all  right. 
Ruth's  all  right" 

But  later  in  my  room  I  wondered — I  wondered  if 
Ruth  really  was  all  right.  Sitting  in  my  little  rocking- 
chair  by  the  window,  sheltered  and  protected  by  kind, 
familiar  walls,  I  asked  myself  what  Ruth  was  doing 
now.  It  was  nearing  the  dinner  hour.  Where  would 
Ruth  be  eating  dinner?  It  was  growing  dark  slowly. 
It  would  be  growing  dark  in  New  York.  Stars  would 
be  coming  out  up  above  the  towering  skyscrapers,  as 
they  were  now  above  the  apple  trees  in  the  garden. 
I  thought  of  Ruth's  empty  bed  across  the  hall.  Where 


RUTH  GOES  TO  NEW  YORK       159 

would  she  sleep  tonight?  Oh,  Ruth — Ruth — poor 
little  sister  Ruth! 

I  remember  when  you  were  a  little  baby  wrapped 
up  in  soft,  pink,  knitted  things.  The  nurse  put  you 
in  my  arms,  and  I  walked  very  carefully  into  my 
mother's  room  with  you  and  stood  staring  down  at 
you  asleep.  I  was  only  a  little  girl,  I  was  afraid  I 
would  drop  you,  and  I  didn't  realize  as  I  stood  there 
by  our  mother's  bed  that  she  was  bidding  her  two 
little  daughters  good-by.  She  couldn't  take  one  of 
my  hands  because  they  were  both  busy  holding  you; 
but  she  reached  out  and  touched  my  shoulder;  and 
she  told  me  always  to  love  you  and  take  care  of  you 
and  be  generous  and  kind,  because  you  were  little  and 
younger.  And  I  said  I  would,  and  carried  you  out 
very  proud  and  happy. 

That  was  a  long  while  ago.  I  have  never  told  you 
about  it — we  haven't  found  it  easy  to  talk  seriously 
together — but  I  have  always  remembered.  I  used  to 
love  to  dress  you  when  you  were  a  baby,  and  feed 
you,  and  take  you  out  in  the  brown  willow  baby  car- 
riage like  the  real  mothers.  But,  of  course,  you  had 
to  outgrow  the  carriage ;  you  had  to  outgrow  the  ugly 
little  dresses  father  and  I  used  to  select  for  you  at  the 
department  stores  in  Hilton ;  you  had  to  outgrow  the 
two  little  braids  I  used  to  plait  for  you  each  morning 
when  you  were  big  enough  to  go  to  school;  you  had 
to  outgrow  me,  too.  I  am  so  plain  and  commonplace. 

Yesterday  when  you  put  your  arms  about  me  there 
in  the  smoky  train-shed  in  Hilton,  and  cried  a  little 


160  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

as  I  held  you  close,  with  the  great  noisy  train  that 
was  to  take  you  away  snorting  beside  us,  you  became 
again  to  me  the  little  helpless  sister  that  mother  told 
me  to  take  care  of.  All  the  years  between  were  blotted 
out.  I  remembered  our  mother's  room,  the  black 
walnut  furniture.  I  saw  the  white  pillows  and 
mother's  long,  dark  braids  lying  over  each  of  her 
shoulders.  Again  I  heard  her  words;  again  I  felt 
the  pride  that  swelled  in  my  heart  as  I  bore  you 
away. 

"I  hope  you  are  safe  tonight.  You  can  always  call 
on  me.  I  will  always  come.  Don't  be  afraid.  And 
when  you  are  unhappy,  write  to  me.  I  shall  under- 
stand. You  are  not  hard,  you  are  not  heartless.  You 
are  tender  and  sensitive.  Only  your  armor  is  made 
of  flint.  You  are  not  changeable  and  vacillating. 
They  didn't  know.  You  are  brave  and  conscientious." 
With  some  such  words  as  these  last  did  I  write  to 
Ruth  before  I  slept  that  night.  I  believed  in  her  as  I 
never  had  before.  I  cherished  her  with  my  soul. 

This  is  what  had  happened  in  Hilton.  After  Ruth 
had  left  the  room  the  afternoon  of  her  inquisition,  the 
rest  of  us  had  sat  closeted  in  serious  consultation  for 
two  hours  or  more.  It  was  after  five  when  we 
emerged. 

To  Edith's  inquiry  as  to  Ruth's  whereabouts,  a 
maid  explained  that  Miss  Ruth  had  left  word  that 
she  was  going  to  walk  out  to  the  Country  Club,  and 
would  return  in  time  for  supper  at  seven.  I  went 
upstairs  to  my  room.  A  feeling  of  despair  possessed 


RUTH  GOES  TO  NEW  YORK       161 

me.  I  sat  down  and  gazed  out  of  the  window.  A 
maid  knocked  lightly  as  I  sat  staring  and  came  in 
with  a  letter. 

"Miss  Ruth  told  me  to  wait  until  you  were  alone 
and  then  to  give  you  this,"  she  explained. 

I  thanked  her  and  she  departed.  I  locked  the  door, 
then  tore  open  Ruth's  note  to  me  and  read  it. 

"Dear  Lucy,"  it  said.  "I  cannot  help  but  overhear 
some  of  the  conversation.  Obviously,  Tom  is  shout- 
ing so  I  may  get  the  benefit  of  his  remarks  without 
effort.  I  must  get  out  of  this  horrible  place.  How 
can  I  endure  to  meet  the  disapproval  and  bitterness 
and  hatred — yes,  hatred — when  they  come  filing  out 
upon  me  from  that  room  across  the  hall.  How  can  I 
sit  down  to  supper  with  them  all,  ask  for  bread — for 
water?  How  can  I  keep  up  this  farce  of  polite 
speech?  I  can't. 

"You  are  in  favor  of  my  going  away  somewhere.  I 
can  hear  you  urging  them.  Well,  then,  if  you  are,  let 
me  go  now — tonight.  I  can't  go  back  with  you  to- 
morrow. Even  though  I  am  hard  and  heartless,  don't 
ask  me  to  run  the  risk  of  seeing  Bob  by  mistake  just 
now.  I  can't  see  him  now.  I  can't.  I  won't  stay 
here  at  Edith's.  I  won't  go  with  Tom.  This  isn't  the 
Middle  Ages.  Then  if  ultimately  I  am  to  go  away, 
alone  somewhere,  let  me  go  immediately.  After  I've 
gone  the  responsibility  of  giving  me  permission  will 
be  lifted  from  Tom's  shoulders.  Don't  you  see?  You 


162  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

can  argue  with  him  to  better  advantage  if  the  step  has 
been  taken. 

"I  shan't  be  blindly  running  away.  I've  been  con- 
sidering a  change  in  my  plans  for  so  long  that  I've 
been  enquiring.  I  know  of  a  position  I  can  get  in 
New  York,  and  right  off.  I  wrote  about  it  last  week. 
I  heard  of  it  through  the  Suffrage  League.  It's  a 
position  in  the  office  there  in  New  York.  I  would 
have  explained  all  this  to  Tom  if  he  had  been  decent, 
but  he  wasn't.  He  is  narrow  and  prejudiced.  Oh, 
Lucy,  help  me  to  escape.  I've  got  fifteen  dollars,  of 
Tom's  and  Edith's,  and  I  shall  keep  it,  too!  They 
owe  me  a  debt  instead  of  7,  them.  That's  the  way  I 
feel.  But  fifteen  dollars  is  not  enough  to  start  to  New 
York  with.  There's  a  train  at  6.20  and  another  at 
8.15.  I  am  going  down  to  the  station  now,  this  min- 
ute, and  wait  for  you  to  come  down  there  with  more 
money  and  help  me  off.  If  you  get  out  of  that  room 
before  six,  I  could  take  the  earlier  train.  If  not,  then 
the  8.15.  I  will  wait  for  you  in  the  ladies'  waiting- 
room  where  the  couches  are.  If  you  think  my  going 
suddenly  this  way  is  out  of  the  question,  then  I'll 
simply  turn  around  and  come  back  with  you  to  the 
house  here,  and  grin  and  bear  the  situation  somehow. 
I'll  have  to.  So  meet  me  anyhow.  Don't  tell  any  one 
where  I  am.  Just  stroll  out  and  we'll  pretend  we've 
been  to  the  Country  Club. 

"I  know  that  I've  been  horrid  to  you  all  my  life, 
critical  and  pharisaic.  You  can  pay  me  back  for  it 
now.  You  can  refuse  to  help  me  if  you  want  to.  I 


RUTH  GOES  TO  NEW  YORK       163 

shan't  blame  you.  But,  oh,  dear,  let  me  go  away 
alone,  just  for  a  little  while  anyway.  Let  nature  try 
and  heal. 

"I  have  my  bag  and  toilet  articles.  Money  is  all 
I  want — money  and  perhaps  just  one  person  in  my 
family  to  wish  me  well. 

"Rum." 

I  glanced  at  the  clock  It  was  just  quarter  of  six. 
There  was  no  opportunity  of  laying  this  question  on 
the  table  and  waiting  for  the  clearing  light  of  morn- 
ing to  help  me  make  a  wise  decision.  This  was  an 
occasion  when  a  woman's  intuition  must  be  relied 
upon.  As  I  stood  there  with  Ruth's  letter  in  my 
hand,  swift  and  sure  was  the  conviction  that  came  to 
me.  I  must  help  Ruth  get  away.  She  would  surely 
escape  sometime  from  the  kind  of  bondage  Tom  was 
planning  to  place  her  under.  If  not  tonight,  or  next 
week,  then  a  month  hence.  Was  it  not  better  for  her 
to  go,  even  though  suddenly  and  shockingly,  with  the 
God-speed  and  the  trust  of  some  one  in  her  own 
family  ? 

Is  it  ever  wise  to  cut  the  last  thread  that  holds  a 
girl  to  those  who  have  loved  and  cherished  her?  I 
thought  not.  Perhaps  the  slender  thread  that  now 
existed  between  Ruth  and  me  might  be  the  means  of 
drawing  a  stouter  cord,  which  in  its  turn  might  haul 
a  cable,  strong  and  reliable.  I  did  not  think  then  of 
the  possible  dangers  in  New  York — the  difficulties,  the 
risks ;  there  was  no  time  to  discuss,  no  time  for  doubts 


164  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

and  misgivings;  there  was  simply  time  for  me  to 
fill  out  two  blank  checks  for  twenty-five  dollars  each, 
put  on  my  hat  and  coat,  and  speed  with  all  possible 
haste  to  the  station. 

I  found  Ruth  eagerly  awaiting  me  in  the  train-shed. 
There  were  crowds  of  people  hastening  here  and  there 
with  bags  and  suit-cases.  There  were  trucks  and 
train-men.  There  was  the  roar  of  an  incoming  train. 
Through  the  confusion  Ruth's  anxious  eyes  looked 
straight  into  mine. 

"Well?" 

"Is  this  your  train?"  I  asked  with  a  nod  toward 
the  sweating  monster  that  had  just  come  to  a  stand- 
still on  the  first  track. 

"It's  the  New  York  train,"  said  Ruth. 

"Well,  I've  brought  some  money,"  I  went  on 
quickly.  "Fifty  dollars.  It  will  last  for  a  while.  They 
don't  know  about  it  yet,  back  there  at  the  house.  I 
shall  have  to  tell  them  when  I  go  back.  I  can't  pre- 
dict. Tom  may  wire  Malcolm  to  meet  you  and  drag 
you  back  home.  I  don't  know.  But  I'll  use  all  the 
influence  I  can  against  it.  I'll  do  my  very  best,  Ruth." 

Ruth's  hand  found  mine  in  a  sudden  grasp  and  held 
it  tightly.  Another  train  roared  into  the  train-shed. 

"Where  shall  you  stay  tonight?"  I  shrieked  at  her. 

She  gave  the  name  of  a  well-known  hotel  reserved 
especially  for  women.  "I  shall  be  all  right,"  she  called. 
"I'll  drop  you  a  line  tomorrow.  You  needn't  worry 
about  me.  I'll  let  you  know  if  I  need  anything." 


RUTH  GOES  TO  NEW  YORK       165- 

A  deep  megaphoned  voice  announced  the  New  York 
train. 

"Your  ticket?"  I  reminded. 

"I  have  it.    I  was  going  anyway,"  she  replied. 

"Well,  then,"  I  said,  and  opened  my  bag  and  pro- 
duced the  two  checks.  She  took  them.  "Promise  me, 
Ruth,  promise  always  to  let  me  know — always  if  you 
need  anything,  or  are  unhappy." 

Her  eyes  suddenly  brimmed  with  tears.  Her  under 
lip  quavered.  She  broke  down  at  last.  I  held  her  in 
my  arms. 

"Oh,  Lucy,  Lucy,"  she  cried.  "You're  so  good  to- 
me. I  miss  him  so.  I  left  the  ring  in  the  corner  of 
your  top  drawer.  You  give  it  to  Bob.  I  can't. 
You're  all  I  have.  I've  been  so  horrid  to  you  all  my 
life.  I  miss  Bob  so.  I  hate  Tom.  I  almost  hate  Tom. 
Oh,  Lucy,  what's  to  become  of  me?  Whatever  is  to 
become  of  me?" 

The  train  gave  a  little  jerk. 

"All  aboard,  Miss,"  called  a  porter. 

"Your  train,  Ruth  dear,"  I  said  gently  and  actually 
pushed  her  a  little  toward  New  York,  which  even  now 
was  beginning  to  appall  me.  She  kissed  me  good-by. 
I  looked  up  and  saw  her  floating  away  in  a  cloud  of 
fitful  steam. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A   YEAR   LATER 

THAT  was  nearly  a  year  ago.  Until  one  day  last 
week  I  have  not  seen  Ruth  since,  not  because  of 
the  busy  life  of  a  young  mother — for  such  I  have  be- 
come since  Ruth  went  away — no,  though  busy  I  have 
been,  and  proud  and  happy  and  selfish,  too,  like  every 
other  mother  of  a  first  son  in  the  world,  I  sup- 
pose— but  because  Ruth  hasn't  wished  to  be  seen. 
That  is  why  I  have  heard  from  her  only  through  let- 
ters, why  I  direct  my  answers  in  care  of  a  certain 
woman's  club  with  a  request  to  forward  them,  and 
why  I  have  neither  sent  down  Will,  nor  appointed 
Malcolm  to  look  her  up  and  find  out  how  she  was 
getting  along. 

Ruth  has  requested  that  I  make  no  endeavor  to  drag 
her  forth  into  the  light  of  criticism  and  comment. 
She  has  written  every  week  punctually;  she  has  re- 
ported good  health;  and  has  invariably  assured  me 
that  she  is  congenially  employed.  I  have  allowed  her 
her  seclusion.  In  olden  days  broken-hearted  women 
and  distracted  men  withdrew  to  the  protection  of 
religion,  and  hid  their  scars  inside  the  walls  of  nun- 
neries and  monasteries.  Why  not  let  Ruth  conceal 

166 


A  YEAR  LATER  167 

her  wounds,  too,  for  a  while,  without  fear  of  dis- 
turbance from  commenting  friends  and  an  inquisitive 
family  ? 

However,  a  fortnight  ago,  I  had  a  letter  from 
Ruth  that  set  me  to  planning.  It  casually  referred  to 
the  fact  that  she  was  going  to  march  in  the  New  York 
suffrage  parade.  I  knew  that  she  is  still  deeply  inter- 
ested in  suffrage.  Any  one  of  her  letters  bore  witness 
to  that.  I  decided  to  see  that  parade.  My  son  was 
six  months  old ;  I  hadn't  left  him  for  a  night  since  he 
was  born;  he  was  a  healthy  little  animal,  gaining 
ounces  every  week;  and  for  all  I  knew  the  first  little 
baby  I  had  been  appointed  to  take  care  of  was  losing 
ounces.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  down  to  New 
York  and  have  a  look  at  Ruth  anyway.  I  told  Will 
about  it;  he  fell  in  with  my  scheme;  and  I  began  to 
make  arrangements. 

When  I  announced  to  Robert  Jennings  that  we  were 
going  to  New  York,  I  tried  to  be  casual  about  it. 

"I  haven't  been  down  there  for  two  years,"  I  said 
one  night  when  he  dropped  in  upon  us,  as  was  his 
occasional  custom.  "I  require  a  polishing  in  New  York 
about  every  six  months.  Besides  I  want  to  begin 
disciplining  myself  in  leaving  that  little  rascal  of  mine 
upstairs,  just  to  prove  that  he  won't  swallow  a  safety- 
pin  or  develop  pneumonia  the  moment  my  back's 
turned.  Don't  you  think  I'm  wise?" 

"New  York?"  took  up  Bob.  "Shall  you — do  you 
plan  to  see  anybody  I  know?"  he  inquired. 

He  was  a  different  man  that  falteringly  asked  me 


168  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

this  question  from  the  Robert  Jennings  of  a  year  ago 
— the  same  eyes,  the  same  voice,  the  same  persistent 
smile,  and  yet  something  gone  out  from  them  all. 

"No,  Bob,"  I  replied,  "I'm  not  going  to  look  up 
Ruth."  We  seldom  spoke  of  her.  When  we  did  it 
was  briefly,  and  usually  when  Will  happened  to  be 
absent. 

"There's  a  suffrage  parade  in  New  York,  Wednes- 
day," Robert  informed  me.  "While  you're  there,  you 
know.  Had  you  an  idea  that  she  might  be  in  it?" 

"Why,  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised,"  I  allowed. 

"Well,  then,  of  course  you'll  see  her,"  he  brought 
out. 

"Well,  I  might.  It's  possible.  I  shall  see  the 
parade,  I  hope.  They  say  they're  rather  impressive." 

"She's  well?"  asked  Bob. 

"She  writes  so,"  I  told  him  briefly. 

"And  happy?" 

"She  seems  so." 

"What  should  you  think  of  the  idea  of  my  seeing 
that  parade,  too?"  he  asked  a  little  later. 

"I  shouldn't  think  very  well  of  it,  Bob." 

"Should  I  be  in  the  way?"  he  smiled,  "interrupt 
yours  and  Will's  tete-d,-tete?" 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not.  But — O  Bob,"  I  broke  off, 
"why  keep  on  thinking  about  Ruth?  I  wish  you 
wouldn't.  Life  has  such  a  lot  else  in  it."  He  colored 
a  little  at  my  frankness.  "Oh,  I  know  you  don't  want 
me  to  talk  about  it,  but  I  can't  help  it.  You  knew 
her  such  a  little  while,  scarcely  six  months  in  all,  and 


A  YEAR  LATER  169 

besides  she  wasn't  suited  to  you.  I  see  it  now  myself. 
She's  stark  mad  about  all  these  suffrage  things.  You 
wouldn't  have  been  happy.  She's  full  of  theories  now. 
I  wish  you'd  drop  all  thought  of  her  and  go  about  the 
next  thing.  I'm  sure  Ruth  is  going  about  the  next 
thing.  You  ought  to." 

"Nevertheless,"  he  said,  "should  I  be  in  the  way?" 

Of  course  he  went.  I  could  see  his  mind  was  made 
up  in  spite  of  what  I  might  say.  The  three  of  us — 
Robert  Jennings  and  Will  and  I — stood  for  two  hours 
on  the  edge  of  a  curbing  in  New  York  City  waiting 
for  Ruth  to  walk  up  Fifth  Avenue. 

We  were  a  merry  little  party.  A  spark  of  Robert's 
old  fun  seemed  to  have  stolen  into  his  eyes,  a  little 
of  the  old  crispness  into  his  voice. 

"They're  going  to  walk  several  abreast,"  he  ex- 
plained. "It  will  be  hard  work  finding  her  in  such  a 
crowd.  She  might  get  by.  So  this  is  my  plan.  I'll 
take  as  my  responsibility  the  rows  farthest  over,  you 
take  the  middle,  Will,  and  Lucy,  you  look  out  for 
those  nearest  the  curb.  See  ?  Now  between  the  three 
of  us  we'll  see  her.  Hello !  I  believe  they're  coming!" 

I  looked  down  Fifth  Avenue,  lined  with  a  black  rib- 
bon of  people  on  each  side.  It  was  free  from  traffic. 
Clear  and  uninterrupted  lay  the  way  for  this  peculiar 
demonstration.  I  saw  in  the  distance  a  flag  approach- 
ing. I  heard  the  stirring  strains  of  a  band. 

Ruth  was  very  near  the  front  of  the  parade.  One 
band  had  passed  us  and  disappeared  into  dimness  and 
Ruth  preceded  the  second  one. 


iyo  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

It  was  a  lovely  sunny  day,  with  a  stiff  sharp  breeze 
that  made  militant  every  flag  that  moved.  Ruth  wore 
no  slogan  of  any  sort.  She  carried  one  symbol  only — 
the  American  flag.  She  was  not  walking.  Ruth  rode, 
regally,  magnificently.  We  were  hunting  for  her  in 
the  rank  and  file,  and  then  some  little  urchin  called 
out,  "Gee !  Look  at  the  peach !" 

And  there  she  was — Ruth!  Our  Ruth,  on  a  black 
horse,  a  splendid  creature  flecked  with  foam. 

"Some  girl!"  said  a  man  beside  me. 

"Who's  she?"  exclaimed  somebody  else. 

Then  abruptly  the  band  that  she  immediately  pre- 
ceded broke  into  thundering  music,  and  drowned 
everything  but  the  sight  of  her. 

But  oh,  such  a  sight!  She  was  in  her  black  habit 
and  wore  the  little  tri-cornered  hat  that  so  became 
her.  She  has  always  ridden  horseback.  Confidently, 
easily  she  sat  in  her  saddle,  with  one  white-gloved 
hand  holding  the  reins,  and  the  other  one  the  pole 
of  the  flag,  which  waved  above  her  head.  In  Ruth's 
eyes  there  was  an  expression  that  was  ardent.  Neither 
to  left  nor  right  did  she  look.  She  seemed  oblivious 
of  her  surroundings.  Straight  ahead  she  gazed; 
straight  ahead  she  rode;  unafraid,  eager,  hopeful;  the 
flag  her  only  staff.  She  epitomized  for  me  the  hun- 
dreds and  hundreds  of  girls  that  were  following  after. 
Where  would  they  all  come  out?  Where,  -where 
would  Ruth  come  out  ?  She  had  sought  liberty.  Well, 
she  had  it.  Where  was  it  taking  her  ?  With  a  chok- 
ing throat  I  watched  my  sister's  stars  and  stripes  van- 


'Straight   ahead   she   gazed;   straight   ahead   she    rode;   un- 
afraid, eager,  hopeful ;  the  flag  her  only  staff" 

— Page  i/o 


A  YEAR  LATER  171 

ish  up  Fifth  Avenue.  I  thought  it  would  satisfy  me 
to  see  Ruth  well  and  happy — for  she  looked  well,  she 
looked  happy — but  it  didn't  satisfy  me.  I  was  hungry 
for  more  of  her. 

None  of  us,  Will,  Robert  or  I,  had  spoken  as  she 
rode  by.  It  had  been  too  impressive.  I  had  not 
looked  at  Robert.  I  had  observed  only  his  hand  as  it 
grasped  his  coat  sleeve  as  he  stood  with  folded  arms. 
One  hand,  I  thought,  had  tightened  its  grasp  a  little. 
We  all  stood  perfectly  speechless  for  at  least  three 
minutes  after  Ruth  went  by.  Finally  it  was  Robert 
who  spoke. 

"Have  you  had  enough?"  he  asked  of  me,  leaning 
down. 

"Have  you?"  I  inquired. 

"Yes,  I  have.  Let's  go.  Come  on,  Will,  let's  get 
out,"  he  said.  There  was  a  note  of  impatience  in  his 
voice.  We  wormed  our  way  back  to  the  entrance  of 
a  shop. 

"What's  the  rush?"  said  Will. 

Robert  replied.  I  could  see  his  emotion  now.  "It's 
this.  I'll  tell  you.  I'm  going  to  clear  right  out  of  this 
crowd  and  look  that  girl  up.  You've  got  that  address 
in  Madison  Avenue,  Lucy.  I'm  going  to  look  her 
up " 

"But,  Bob,"  I  remonstrated.  "She  doesn't  live 
there,  and  she  doesn't  want  to  be  looked  up.  She  has 
asked  me  not  to — and  besides ' 

"I  can't  help  that — I  shall  be  doing  the  looking  up. 
I'll  take  the  blame,"  he  rather  snapped  at  me. 


172  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Now,  look  here,  Bob,  old  man,"  said  Will,  and  he 
put  a  hand  on  one  of  Robert's  shoulders.  "What's 
the  good  in  it  now?  Don't  you  see  she'll  be  hotter 
than  ever  on  this  thing  just  now?  Wait  till  she  cools 
off  a  bit.  That's  the  idea!" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  to  dissuade  her.  I  don't  care  about 
that.  It's  simply  to  find  out  if  she's  all  right.  She 
may  need  help  of  some  kind  or  other.  She's  a  proud 
girl.  Good  heavens,  she  isn't  going  to  send  for  any 
one.  I  don't  know  what  we've  been  thinking  of — a 
whole  year  down  in  this  place,  and  no  knowledge  of 
what  kind  of  a  life  she's  had  to  live.  That  isn't  right 
— no.  Lucy,  if  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  give  me  that 
address,  I'll  be  off." 

"I  don't  believe  you  can  trace  her  through  that." 

"I'll  see  to  that  end  of  it."  He  was  really  almost 
sharp  with  me. 

"What  do  you  think,  Will?"  I  inquired. 

"Oh,  give  it  to  him,  give  it  to  him,  my  dear." 

And  so  I  did  at  last. 

Will  and  I  went  to  the  theater  that  night,  and  sup- 
per afterward.  It  was  after  midnight  when  we 
strolled  into  the  hotel.  Robert  Jennings  was  sitting 
in  one  of  the  big  chairs  in  the  corridor  with  a  paper 
up  before  his  face.  Will  had  gone  to  the  desk  to  get 
our  key,  and  I  went  up  and  spoke  to  Bob. 

"Well,  hello!"  I  blurted  out  cheerfully.  "What 
success?  Did  you  see  her?" 

He  stood  up,  and  I  saw  his  face  then. 

"Yes,  I  saw  her,"  he  replied,  then  with  difficulty 


A  YEAR  LATER  173 

added,  "Don't  ask  me  about  it,"  and  abruptly  he 
turned  away,  tossed  aside  the  paper,  and  walked 
straight  out  of  the  hotel.  He  might  have  been  in  a 
play  on  the  stage. 

We  had  arranged  to  leave  for  home  the  following 
morning.  Will  called  up  Robert's  room  about  nine 
to  find  out  if  he  was  still  planning  to  return  with  us. 
There  was  no  answer.  I  felt  anxious  about  Bob.  Will 
felt  simply  irritated. 

"Ought  to  have  known  more  than  to  have  gone 
pressing  his  suit  on  a  person  in  Ruth's  frame  of  mind," 
he  grumbled. 

Robert  Jennings  didn't  show  up  until  three  minutes 
before  the  train  pulled  out.  His  reservation  hadn't 
been  canceled,  but  I  had  little  hope  of  his  appearance. 
My  heart  gave  a  bound  of  relief  when  I  saw  him  com- 
ing into  the  car  at  the  farther  end. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!"  I  said.  "I'm  so  glad  you've 
come.  We've  been  looking  for  you." 

"Hello  there,"  put  in  Will. 

"Have  you?  That's  good  of  you,"  said  Bob.  He 
had  himself  well  in  hand  now.  I  was  glad  of  that. 
"I  went  out  for  breakfast,"  he  explained.  "I  was  sure 
to  show  up,  however.  I  have  a  five  o'clock  appoint- 
ment this  afternoon,"  and  he  took  off  his  overcoat, 
swung  his  chair  about,  and  sat  down. 

For  two  hours  he  sat  opposite  me  there  without  a 
single  reference  to  the  night  before.  You  might  have 
thought  I  never  had  seen  him  cast  that  newspaper 
aside  and  unceremoniously  burst  out  of  the  hotel.  We 


174  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

talked  about  all  sorts  of  indifferent  subjects.  Finally 
I  leaned  over  and  asked  Will  if  he  didn't  want  to  go 
into  the  smoking-car. 

"Understand?"  I  inquired. 

"Surely,"  he  replied,  "surely,  I  do,  Miss  Canny," 
and  left  us. 

A  half-an-hour  outside  New  London  Bob  began  to 
talk.  "Do  you  want  to  hear  about  last  night?"  he 
asked  me. 

"If  you  want  to  tell  me,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  I  found  her.    I  found  Ruth." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  did,  Bob." 

"Do  you  know  where  I  found  her?" 

"Why,  no.    Of  course  I  don't." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  After  I  left  you  I  went  first  to 
the  Madison  Avenue  address.  It  wasn't  until  I  gave 
the  lady  at  the  desk  of  that  club  the  impression  that 
I  came  bearing  news  of  some  serious  nature  connected 
with  Ruth's  famliy,  that  she  gave  me  the  address 
where  Ruth's  mail  is  forwarded.  She  told  me  it  was 
Ruth's  place  of  business.  It  was  an  address  up  near 
the  region  of  the  Park,  no  name,  just  the  bare  street 
and  number.  I  called  'information,'  and  finally  the 
house  on  the  'phone.  I  was  informed  Miss  Vars 
would  not  be  in  until  after  dinner.  So  I  waited,  and 
about  half-past  eight  went  up  there.  I  found  the 
house — a  big,  impressive  affair,  grilled  iron  fence 
close  to  it  in  front,  very  fine,  very  luxurious;  all  the 
windows  curtained  darkly,  with  a  glow  of  brightness 
through  the  cracks  here  and  there.  I  hesitated  to 


A  YEAR  LATER  175 

present  myself.  I  walked  up  and  down  twice  in  front 
of  the  house,  wondering  if  it  would  be  wiser  to  call 
Ruth  by  telephone  and  make  an  appointment.  Then 
suddenly  some  one  inside  opened  an  upper  window — 
it  was  a  warm  night.  I  saw  a  man  draw  aside  the 
laces,  raise  the  shade,  and  throw  up  the  sash.  I  saw 
beyond  into  the  room.  I  saw  Ruth.  She  was  sitting 
beneath  a  bright  light,  on  a  sofa.  She  was  sewing. 
She  seemed  quite  at  home.  I  saw  the  man  turn  away 
from  the  window  and  go  back  and  sit  down  on  the 
sofa  beside  her.  I  saw  him  stretch  out,  put  one  hand 
in  his  pocket,  lean  back  luxuriously,  and  proceed  to 
smoke.  It  was  all  very  intimate.  A  policeman  passed 
me  as  I  stood  there  staring. 

"  'Who  lives  there  ?'  I  asked  him — and  he  told  me. 
'Oh,  that's  the  Sewall  place,'  he  said,  'Young  Breck- 
enridge  Sewall,  you  know.'  I  looked  up  at  the  win- 
dow again.  The  man  was  closing  it  now.  Is  he  dark, 
quite  dark,  stoops  a  little,  with  a  receding  forehead?" 
asked  Robert  of  me. 

I  nodded.     I  couldn't  speak. 

"It  was  he,  it  was  Sewall  without  a  doubt.  What 
is  Ruth  doing  in  that  house  ?"  demanded  Bob.  "What 
is  she  doing,  sitting  there  alone  with  that  man  at  nine 
o'clock  at  night — sewing?  What  does  it  mean?  I 
didn't  go  in.  I  walked  back  to  the  hotel  and  sat  there, 
and  then  I  went  out  and  walked  again.  What  does  it 
mean?  For  heaven's  sake,  Lucy — tell  me  what  she's 
doing  there?" 

"O  Bob,"  I  said  tremblingly,  "don't  think  anything 


176  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

awful  about  Ruth.  Whatever  she's  doing  there,  it's 
all  right." 

"You  don't  know,"  he  groaned. 

"I  know  Ruth,  and  that's  enough.  Of  course  she's 
all  right.  Don't  let's  get  absurd.  I  can't  understand 
it,  of  course,  but  after  all " 

"Oh,  please,"  almost  shuddered  Bob,  "don't  let's 
talk  about  it.  I  don't  want  to  think  about  it.  She  has 
been  such  a  beautiful  memory,  and  now — please  don't 
talk  about  it." 

"All  right,"  I  said  and  leaned  back  and  gazed  out 
of  the  window,  stunned  by  his  news,  frightened  more 
than  I  dared  to  show. 

We  rumbled  on  in  silence  for  half  an  hour.  I  was 
dimly  aware  that  Bob  bought  a  magazine.  Will  joined 
us  later,  sat  down,  and  fell  off  to  sleep.  Bob  got  up 
and  announced  that  he  was  going  into  the  smoking- 
car.  His  composure  of  the  early  afternoon  had  left 
him.  He  appeared  nervous  and  disturbed.  He  looked 
distressed.  Just  outside  Providence  he  returned  to  the 
car  with  a  porter  and  began  gathering  up  his  be- 
longings. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing  much,"  he  replied  shortly,  "only  I'm  going 
back  to  New  York.  I'm  going  back  now — tonight, 
that's  all." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

RUTH   RESUMES    HER   OWN   STORY 

I  HAD  no  idea  what  I  was  undertaking  when  I  went 
to  New  York.  I  had  had  no  experience  with  the 
difficulties  that  exist  between  announcing  you  intend 
to  live  your  own  life,  and  living  it.  The  world  is  a 
bewildering  place  for  one  unused  to  it.  All  the  savoir- 
faire  and  sophistication  acquired  in  reception-rooms 
didn't  stand  me  in  very  good  stead  when  it  came  to 
earning  my  own  living  in  New  York  City.  I  was 
timid,  full  of  fears — imaginary  and  real.  I  had  been 
to  New  York  many  times  before,  but  the  realization 
that  I  was  in  the  big  city  alone,  unanchored,  afloat, 
filled  me  with  panic.  I  was  like  a  young  bird,  feather- 
less,  naked,  trembling,  knocked  out  of  its  nest  before 
it  could  fly.  Every  sound,  every  unknown  shape  was 
a  monster  cat  waiting  to  devour  me.  I  was  acutely 
aware  of  dangers  lurking  for  young  girls  in  big  cities. 
For  two  or  three  days  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  control 
myself  and  keep  my  nerve  steady. 

I  arrived  on  a  cold,  gray,  cloudy  morning;  unac- 
customed to  reaching  destinies  unmet;  my  heart  torn 
and  bleeding ;  nobody  to  turn  to  for  help  and  advice ; 
no  plan  formed  in  my  confused  mind ;  afraid  even  to 

177 


178  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

trust  myself  to  the  care  of  a  taxicab  driver.  For  such 
a  timid  pilgrim  in  quest  of  freedom,  to  start  out  in 
search  of  an  address  she  treasures  because  of  the 
golden  apple  of  immediate  employment  that  it  prom- 
ises, and  to  learn  on  arrival  that  the  position  already 
has  been  filled,  is  terribly  disheartening.  To  wake 
up  the  second  morning  in  a  two-dollar  hotel  room, 
which  she  has  locked  and  barred  the  night  before  with 
all  the  foolish  precautions  of  a  young  and  amateurish 
traveler,  to  pay  a  dollar  for  a  usual  breakfast  served 
in  her  room  and  a  dollar-and-a-half  for  a  luncheon  of 
nothing  but  a  simple  soup  and  chicken-a-la-King,  and 
then  to  figure  out  on  a  piece  of  paper  that  at  such  a 
rate  her  fifty  dollars  will  last  just  about  two  weeks, 
is  enough  to  make  any  young  fool  of  a  girl  wish  she 
had  been  taught  something  else  besides  setting  off 
expensive  gowns.  I  didn't  know  what  I  ought  to  do. 
I  didn't  know  how  to  begin.  I  was  so  self-conscious, 
at  first,  so  fearful  that  my  being  at  that  hotel,  alone, 
unchaperoned,  might  be  questioned  and  cause  unpleas- 
ant comment,  that  I  stayed  in  my  room  as  much  as 
possible.  When  I  look  back  and  see  myself  those  first 
few  days  I  have  to  smile  out  of  self-pity.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  my  lacerated  pride,  for  the  memory  of  Tom's 
arrogance  and  Edith's  taunts,  I  might  have  persuaded 
myself  to  give  up  my  dangerous  enterprise,  but  every 
time  I  rehearsed  that  scene  at  the  Homestead  (and, 
imprisoned  as  I  was,  I  rehearsed  it  frequently),  some- 
thing flamed  up  in  me  higher  and  higher  each  time. 
I  could  not  go  back  with  self-respect.  It  was  impos- 


RUTH  RESUMES  HER  OWN  STORY     179 

sible.  I  concluded  that  I  might  as  well  get  singed  in 
New  York,  as  bound  in  slavery  by  Tom  and  Edith. 

As  soon  as  I  became  fully  convinced  that  my  lot 
was  cast,  I  ventured  out  to  look  for  cheaper  accom- 
modations. 

Ever  since  I  have  been  allowed  alone  on  a  railroad 
train,  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  has  been  preached  to  me  as  a 
perfectly  safe  place  to  ask  advice  in  case  of  being 
stranded  in  a  strange  city.  So  I  trudged  down  there 
one  late  afternoon  and  procured  a  list  of  several  lodg- 
ing-houses, where  my  mother's  young  parlor-maid 
could  stay  for  a  week  with  safety  while  we  were  mov- 
ing from  our  summer  house.  I  didn't  know  whether  I 
could  bring  myself  really  to  undress  and  get  into  the 
little  cot  in  the  room  which  I  finally  engaged,  but  at 
least  the  room  had  a  window.  I  could  sit  by  that.  I 
had  been  assured  that  the  place  was  reputable.  I 
moved  down  there  in  a  taxicab  one  rainy  Saturday 
afternoon.  Lucy  had  sent  me  my  trunk,  and  I  had  to 
convey  it  somehow.  I  didn't  sleep  at  all  the  first  night. 
There  was  a  fire-escape  immediately  outside  my  open 
window,  and  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  lock  on  the 
door.  On  Monday  I  bought  a  screw-eye  and  hook  for 
fifteen  cents,  and  put  nails  in  the  sash  for  burglar 
stops. 

At  first  I  used  to  crawl  back  to  that  smelly  little  hall 
bedroom  at  the  earliest  sign  of  dusk ;  at  first,  if  a  man 
on  the  street  spoke  to  me,  I  would  tremble  for  five  min- 
utes afterward ;  at  first  the  odor  of  the  continual  boil- 
ing of  mutton  bones  and  onions  that  met  me  every  time 


180  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

I  opened  the  door  of  Mrs.  Plummet's  lodging-house 
used  to  make  me  feel  sick  to  my  stomach.  I  became 
hardened  as  time  went  on,  but  at  first  it  was  rather 
awful.  I  don't  like  to  recall  those  early  experiences 
of  mine. 

I  learned  a  great  deal  during  my  first  fortnight  at 
Mrs.  Plummet's.  I  never  knew,  for  instance,  that  one 
meal  a  day,  eaten  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, takes  the  place  of  three,  very  comfortably,  if 
aided  and  abetted  in  the  morning  by  crackers  spread 
with  peanut  butter,  and  a  glass  of  milk,  a  whole  bottle 
of  which  one  could  buy  for  a  few  cents  at  the  corner 
grocery  store.  The  girl  who  roomed  next  door  to  me 
gave  me  lots  of  such  tips.  I  had  no  idea  that  there 
were  shops  on  shabby  avenues,  where  one  could  get  an 
infinitesimal  portion  of  what  one  paid  for  a  last  sea- 
son's dinner-gown;  that  furs  are  a  wiser  investment 
than  satin  and  lace ;  and  that  my  single  emerald  could 
be  more  easily  turned  into  dollars  and  cents  than  all 
the  enameled  jewelry  I  owned  put  together.  The  feel- 
ing of  reinforcement  that  the  contents  of  my  trunk 
gave  me  did  a  lot  in  restoring  confidence.  The  girl 
next  door  and  I  reckoned  that  their  value  in  second- 
hand shops  would  see  me  through  the  summer,  at  least. 
Surely,  I  could  become  established  somewhere  by  fall. 

I  didn't  know  how  to  approach  my  problem.  1 
didn't  know  what  advertisements  in  the  newspapers 
were  the  false  ones.  I  felt  shy  about  applying  for 
work  at  stores  and  shops.  For  whom  should  I  ask? 
To  what  department  present  myself?  What  should  I 


RUTH  RESUMES  HER  OWN  STORY     181 

say  first  ?  One  day  I  told  a  benevolent-looking  woman, 
one  of  the  officers  at  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.,  the  truth  about 
myself,  that  I,  and  not  my  mother's  parlor-maid,  was 
occupying  the  room  in  the  lodging-house.  Not  until 
that  woman  put  her  hand  kindly  on  my  shoulder  and 
advised  me  to  go  home — did  I  realize  how  determined 
I  had  become.  New  York  had  not  devoured  me,  the 
lodging-house  had  not  harmed  me.  I  had  found  I 
could  sleep,  and  very  well,  too,  on  the  lumpy,  slumped- 
in  cot  with  the  soiled  spread.  No  one  climbed  the 
fire-escape,  no  one  tried  my  locked  door  at  night.  I 
had  pawned  my  last  winter's  furs,  but  my  character 
seemed  quite  clean  and  unsmirched.  Go  home!  Of 
course  I  wasn't  going  home.  Not  yet.  The  lady  gave 
me  a  list  of  reputable  employment  agencies  at  last. 
If  Mrs.  Plummet's  hadn't  daunted  me,  employment 
offices  couldn't  either,  I  said.  I  was  told  to  provide 
suitable  references. 

Now  references  were  just  what  I  couldn't  very  well 
provide.  I  had  left  home  under  disagreeable  circum- 
stances. I  tried  to  make  it  clear  without  too  much  de- 
tail that,  except  for  my  sister,  my  connections  with  my 
people  were  severed,  and  I  couldn't  apply  to  Lucy.  I 
hadn't  even  given  her  my  actual  address.  She  would 
be  sure  to  come  looking  me  up,  or  send  some  one  in 
her  place.  Very  likely  she  would  ask  my  brother  Mal- 
colm to  drop  in  on  me  sometime.  I  was  in  deadly  fear 
I  would  run  across  him  on  the  street,  and  if  Malcolm 
had  ever  smelled  the  inside  of  the  house  where  I 
roomed,  I  fear  his  nose  never  would  have  come  down. 


182  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

If  Lucy  had  ever  seen  the  dirt  on  the  stairs  she  would 
have  pronounced  the  house  disreputable,  and  dragged 
me  home.  Secrecy  was  my  only  chance  for  success, 
at  least  for  a  while.  I  would  have  to  discover  what 
could  be  done  without  references. 

It  was  due  to  a  little  new  trick  I  learned  of  looking 
on  at  myself  that  it  was  not  impossible  for  me  to  seek 
a  position  through  an  employment  agency.  I  had  be- 
come, you  see,  one  of  those  characters  I  had  read 
about  in  short  stories  dozens  of  times  before — an  un- 
employed girl  in  New  York,  even  to  the  hall-bedroom, 
the  handkerchiefs  stuck  on  my  window-pane  in  process 
of  ironing,  the  water-bugs  around  the  pipes  in  the 
bathroom.  It  was  this  consciousness  of  myself  that 
made  many  of  the  hardships  bearable — this  and  the 
grim  determination  not  to  give  up. 

I  told  the  lady  in  charge  of  the  intelligence  office 
where  I  first  applied  that  I  was  willing  to  try  anything, 
but  thought  I  was  best  suited  as  a  mother' s-helper,  or 
a  sort  of  governess.  She  shrugged  when  I  told  her  I 
had  no  reference,  but  occasionally  she  gave  me  an  op- 
portunity for  an  interview. 

There  was  something  about  me  that,  lacking  a  ref- 
erence, impressed  my  would-be  employers  unfavor- 
ably; possibly  it  was  the  modish  cut  of  the  hundred- 
dollar  spring  suit  I  wore,  or  the  shape  of  my  hat. 
Anyhow,  they  all  decided  against  me.  If  I  had  per- 
sisted long  enough,  I  might  have  found  some  sort  of 
place,  but  on  the  fourth  or  fifth  day  of  my  ordeal  in 
intelligence  offices,  something  happened. 


RUTH  RESUMES  HER  OWN  STORY     183 

I  was  sitting  with  the  rest  of  my  unemployed  sisters 
in  the  little  inner  room  provided  for  us  off  the  main 
office,  when  I  glanced  through  the  door  to  see  Hen- 
rietta Morgan  and  her  mother.  I  looked  hastily  away. 
Here  I  had  been  avoiding  Fifth  Avenue  and  the  region 
of  shops,  for  fear  some  of  my  old  friends  about  New 
York  (and  I  have  many)  might  run  across  me,  and 
stupidly  I  had  walked  into  the  very  place  infested  by 
them.  I  accomplished  my  escape  easily  enough.  Nat- 
urally Mrs.  Morgan  wasn't  looking  for  me  in  such  a 
place,  but  I  didn't  take  the  chance  again. 

I  was  lonely  and  discouraged  many  times  during 
that  first  bitter  summer  of  mine  in  New  York.  I  felt 
no  charity  for  Edith,  no  forgiveness  for  Tom.  I 
hadn't  wanted  to  leave  home — not  really — I  hadn't 
.sought  an  experience  like  this.  They  had  forced  me  to 
it.  If  only  Tom  hadn't  treated  me  like  a  naughty 
child!  If  only  Bob — oh  if  only  Bob — (no,  there  were 
some  things  I  could  not  dwell  upon.  It  was  wiser  not 
to).  Some  pains  are  dull  and  steady.  One  can  en- 
dure them  and  smile.  Others  recur  at  intervals,  oc- 
casioned by  some  unimportant  detail  like  a  man  on  the 
street  selling  roasted  chestnuts,  which  reminds  one  of 
saffron  woods  in  late  October.  Such  pain  is  like  the 
stab  of  a  sharp  stiletto. 

Mine  is  the  same  old  story  of  hope  and  despair,  of 
periods  of  courage  occasioned  by  opportunities  that 
flickered  for  a  while  and  went  out.  T  was  not  utterly 
without  employment.  The  first  three  dollars  I  earned 
at  directing  envelopes  in  a  department  store  made  me 


184  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

happy  for  a  fortnight.  It  was  a  distinct  triumph.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  been  initiated  into  a  great  society.  I 
had  been  paid  money  for  the  labor  of  my  hands !  The 
girl  who  roomed  next  to  me  had  helped  me  to  get  the 
position.  I  was  not  without  associates.  There  were 
twenty-five  girls  besides  myself  who  carried  away  in 
their  clothes  each  morning  the  odor  of  Mrs.  Plummet's 
soup-stock.  Mrs.  Plummet  let  rooms  to  girls  only, 
and  only  rooms.  We  didn't  board  with  Mrs.  Plum- 
met. I  wondered  how  she  and  old  Mr.  Plummet  ever 
consumed,  alone,  so  much  lamb  broth. 

For  a  fortnight  I  was  a  model  for  trying  on  suits 
in  a  down-town  wholesale  house;  several  times  the 
Y.  W.  C.  A.  found  opportunities  for  me  to  play  accom- 
paniments; in  October  when  the  suffrage  activities 
began  I  was  able  to  pick  up  a  few  crumbs  of  work 
in  the  printing  office  of  one  of  their  papers.  But 
such  a  thing  as  permanent  employment  became  a  verit- 
able will-o'-the-wisp.  I  was  strong  and  willing,  and 
yet  I  could  not — absolutely  could  not — support  myself. 
I  tried  writing  fiction.  I  had  always  yearned 
to  be  literary,  but  the  magazines  sent  all  my  stuff 
back.  I  tried  sewing  in  a  dressmaker's  shop,  but 
after  three  days  the  Madam  announced  that  her  shop 
would  be  closed  during  August,  the  dull  season.  She 
had  hired  me  simply  to  rush  a  mourning  order.  From 
one  thing  to  another  I  went,  becoming  more  and  more 
disheartened  as  fall  approached,  and  my  stock  of 
clothes  and  jewelry,  on  the  proceeds  of  which  I  was 
living,  became  lower  and  lower.  My  almost  empty 


RUTH  RESUMES  HER  OWN  STORY     185 

trunk  stared  at  me  forlornly  from  its  corner;  it  fore- 
told failure.  What  should  I  do  when  the  last  little 
frumpery  of  my  old  life  had  been  turned  into  money 
to  support  my  new  one?  To  whom  turn?  I  could 
not  ask  for  help  from  those  who  had  admonished  and 
criticized.  I  had  written  Lucy  weekly  that  I  was  pros- 
pering. I  could  not  acknowledge  failure  even  to  her. 
I  bent  every  nerve  to  the  effort. 

One  day  in  a  magazine  that  some  one  had  discarded 
in  a  subway  train  I  ran  across  an  advertisement  for 
"a  young  lady  of  education  and  good  family,  familiar 
with  social  obligations,  to  act  as  a  private  secretary  to 
a  lady  in  a  private  home."  I  answered  that  advertise- 
ment. I  had  answered  dozens  similar  before.  This, 
like  the  others  no  doubt,  would  end  in  failure.  But 
I  couldn't  sit  and  fold  my  hands.  I  must  keep  on 
trying.  I  answered  it — and  six  others  at  the  same 
time.  Of  the  seven  I  had  a  reply  only  from  the  one 
mentioned  above. 

It  was  a  unique  reply.  It  was  typewritten.  "If 
still  interested  in  the  position  referred  to  in  attached 
clipping  reply  by  complying  to  requirements  enclosed 
— and  mail  answer  by  the  evening  of  the  day  that  this 
communication  is  received. 

"ist.  Write  a  formal  acceptance  to  a  formal 
dinner. 

2nd.  Write  a  few  words  on  suffrage  appropriate 
to  an  older  woman  who  is  mildly  opposed. 

3rd.     Write  a  polite  note  of  refusal  to  the  treasurer 


186  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

of  a  charitable  institution  in  reply  to  a  request  to  do- 
nate sum  of  money. 

4th.  Write  a  note  of  condolence  to  an  acquaintance 
upon  the  death  of  a  relative. 

5th.  Write  a  note  of  congratulation  to  a  debutante 
announcing  her  engagement. 

6th.  Write  an  informal  invitation  to  a  house-party 
in  the  country. 

7th.  Acknowledge  a  gift  of  flowers  sent  to  you 
during  an  illness." 

I  sat  down  with  zest  to  this  task.  It  was  an  original 
way  to  weed  out  applicants.  I  spent  the  whole  after- 
noon over  it.  It  was  late  in  the  evening  before  I  had 
all  my  questions  answered,  neatly  copied,  sealed,  and 
dropped  inside  a  green  letter-box. 

A  day  or  two  later  I  received  in  the  same  noncom- 
mittal typewritten  form  a  brief  summons  to  appear  the 
following  morning  between  twelve  and  one  o'clock  at 
a  certain  uptown  hotel,  and  to  inquire  at  the  desk  for 
Miss  A.  S.  Armstrong. 

It  was  a  clear  starry  night.  I  pinned  a  towel  over 
my  suit,  put  it  on  a  coat-hanger,  and  hung  it  securely 
to  the  blind-catch  outside  my  window.  I  didn't  know 
who  Miss  A.  S.  Armstrong  was,  but  at  any  rate  I 
would  offer  up  to  the  stars  what  I  possessed  of  Mrs. 
Plummet's  soup-stock. 


CHAPTER    XX 

THE    FIFTH    WHEEL    GAINS    WINGS 

MISS  A.  S.  ARMSTRONG  proved  to  be  a  thin 
angular  creature  with  no  eyelashes.  She  saw 
me  come  in  through  the  revolving  doors  of  the  hotel 
at  sharp  twelve  o'clock.  When  I  enquired  for  her  at 
the  desk,  she  was  at  my  elbow.  She  was  not  the  lady 
I  had  come  to  be  interviewed  by;  she  was  merely  her 
present  private  secretary;  the  lady  herself,  she  ex- 
plained, was  upstairs  awaiting  me. 

"You're  younger  than  we  thought,"  she  said,  eyeing 
me  critically.  She  was  a  very  precise  person.  Her 
accent  was  English.  My  hopes  dimmed  as  I  looked 
upon  her.  If  she  had  been  selected  as  desirable,  then 
there  was  little  chance  for  me.  My  short  experience 
in  employment  offices  had  proved  to  me  the  undesira- 
bility  of  possessing  qualities  that  impress  a  would-be 
employer  as  too  attractive. 

"Do  you  have  young  men  callers?"  "Do  you  like 
'to  go'?"  "Do  you  want  to  be  out  late?"  Such  in- 
quiries were  invariably  made  when  I  was  trying  to 
obtain  a  position  as  a  mother's-helper  or  child's-com- 
j>anion;  and  though  I  was  able  to  reply  in  the  nega- 
tive, my  inquisitors  would  look  at  me  suspiciously,  and 

187 


188  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

remain  unconvinced.  Now,  again,  I  felt  sure  as  we 
ascended  to  the  apartment  above  that  my  appearance 
(Miss  Armstrong  had  called  it  my  youth)  would  stand 
in  my  way. 

I  was  ushered  into  a  room  high  up  in  the  air,  flooded 
with  New  York  sunshine.  It  dazzled  me  at  first. 
Coming  in  from  the  dimness  of  the  corridor,  I  could 
not  discern  the  features  of  the  lady  sitting  in  an  easy 
chair. 

"I  beg*  your  pardon,"  ejaculated  Miss  Armstrong  at 
sight  of  her,  "I  thought  you  were  in  the  other  room. 
Shall  we  come  in  ?" 

"Certainly,  certainly."  There  was  a  note  of  impa- 
tience. 

Miss  Armstrong  turned  to  me.  I  was  behind  her, 
half  hidden.  "Come  in,"  she  said.  "I  wish  to  intro- 
duce you  to  Mrs.  Sewall — Mrs.  F.  Rockridge  Sewall. 
The  applicant  to  your  advertisement,  Mrs.  Sewall." 

Miss  Armstrong  stood  aside.  I  stepped  forward 
(what  else  could  I  do?)  and  stood  staring  into  the  eyes 
of  my  old  enemy.  It  was  she  who  recovered  first  from 
the  shock  of  our  meeting.  I  had  seen  a  slight  flush — 
an  angry  flush  I  thought — spread  faintly  over  Mrs. 
Sewall's  features  as  she  first  recognized  me.  But  it 
faded.  When  she  spoke  there  wasn't  a  trace  of  sur- 
prise in  her  voice. 

"My  applicant,  did  I  understand  you  to  say,  Miss 
Armstrong?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied  in  almost  as  calm  a  manner  as  hers, 
"I  answered  your  advertisement  for  a  private  secre- 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL  GAINS  WINGS     189 

tary,  and  followed  it  by  responding  to  the  test  which 
you  sent  me,  and  received  word  to  appear  here  this 
morning." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Sewall,  observing  me  sus- 
piciously. 

"But,"  I  went  on,  "I  did  not  know  to  whom  I  was 
applying.  I  answered  six  other  advertisements  at  the 
same  time.  I  have,  of  course,  heard  of  Mrs.  F.  Rock- 
ridge  Sewall.  I  doubt  if  I  would  be  experienced 
enough  for  you.  Miss  Armstrong  spoke  of  my  youth 
downstairs."  Mrs.  Sewall  still  continued  to  observe 
me.  "To  save  you  the  trouble  of  interviewing  me,"  I 
went  on,  "I  think  I  had  better  go.  I  am  not  fitted  for 
the  position,  I  am  quite  sure.  I  am  sorry  to  have  taken 
any  of  your  time.  I  would  never  have  answered  your 
advertisement  had  you  given  your  name."  I  moved 
toward  the  door. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Mrs.  Sewall.  "Kindly  wait  a 
minute,  and  be  seated.  Miss  Armstrong,  your  note- 
book please.  Are  you  ready  ?" 

Miss  Armstrong,  seated  now  at  a  small  desk,  pro- 
duced a  leather-bound  book  and  fountain-pen.  "Quite 
ready,"  she  replied. 

Mrs.  Sewall  turned  to  me.  "I  always  finish  under- 
takings. I  have  undertaken  an  interview  with  you. 
Let  us  proceed  with  it,  then.  Let  us  see,  Miss  Arm- 
strong, what  did  the  young  lady  sign  herself?" 

"Y— Q— A." 

"Yes.  'Y — Q — A/  First  then — your  name,"  said 
Mrs.  Sewall. 


190  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

It  was  my  impulse  to  escape  the  grilling  that  this 
merciless  woman  was  evidently  going  to  put  me  to; 
my  first  primitive  instinct  to  strike  my  adversary  with 
some  bitterly  worded  accusation  and  then  turn  and  fly. 
But  I  stood  my  ground.  Without  a  quiver  of  obvious 
embarrassment,  or  more  than  a  second's  hesitation,  I 
replied,  looking  at  Mrs.  Sewall  squarely. 

"My  name  is  Ruth  Chenery  Vars." 

Miss  Armstrong  scratched  it  in  her  book. 

"Oh,  yes,  Ruth  Chenery  Vars.  Your  age,  please, 
Miss  Vars?"  Mrs.  Sewall  coldly  inquired. 

I  told  her  briefly. 

"Your  birthplace?" 

And  I  told  her  that. 

"Your  education?"  she  pursued. 

"High-school,"  I  replied,  "one  year  of  boarding- 
school,  one  year  coming  out  into  society,  several  years 
stagnating  in  society,  some  travel,  some  hotel  life,  one 
summer  learning  how  to  live  on  seven  dollars  a  week." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  I  thought  I  discerned  a  spark  of 
amusement  in  Mrs.  Sewall's  ejaculation.  "Indeed! 
And  will  you  tell  me,  Miss  Vars,"  she  went  on,  a  little 
more  humanely,  "why  you  are  seeking  a  position  as 
private  secretary?" 

"Why,  to  earn  my  living,"  I  replied. 

"And  why  do  you  wish  to  earn  your  living?" 

"The  instinct  to  exist,  I  suppose." 

"Come,"  said  Mrs.  Sewall,  "why  are  you  here  in 
New  York,  Miss  Vars?  You  appear  to  be  a  young 
lady  of  good  birth  and  culture,  accustomed  to  the  com- 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL  GAINS  WINGS     191 

forts,  and  I  should  say,  the  luxuries  of  life,  if  I  am  a 
judge.  Why  are  you  here  in  New  York  seeking  em- 
ployment ?" 

"To  avoid  becoming  a  parasite,  Mrs.  Sewall,"  I 
replied. 

"  'To  avoid  becoming  a  parasite' !"  (Yes,  there  was 
humor  in  those  eyes.  I  could  see  them  sparkle. )  "Out 
of  the  mouths  of  babes!"  she  exclaimed,  "verily,  out 
of  the  mouths  of  babes !  You  are  young  to  fear  para- 
sitism, Miss  Vars." 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  acknowledged  pleasantly,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window. 

Beneath  Mrs.  Sewall's  curious  gaze  I  sat,  quiet  and 
unperturbed,  contemplating  miles  of  roofs  and  puffing 
chimneys.  I  was  not  embarrassed.  I  had  once  feared 
the  shame  and  mortification  that  would  be  mine  if  I 
should  ever  again  encounter  this  woman,  but  in  some 
miraculous  fashion  I  had  opened  my  own  prison  doors. 
It  flashed  across  me  that  never  again  could  the  bogies 
and  false  gods  of  society  rule  me.  I  was  free !  I  was 
independent!  I  was  unafraid!  I  turned  confident 
eyes  back  to  Mrs.  Sewall.  She  was  considering  me 
sharply,  interrogatively,  tapping  an  arm  of  her  chair 
as  she  sat  thinking. 

"Well,"  I  said  smiling,  and  stood  up  as  if  to  go.  "If 
you  are  through  with  me " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  interrupted.  "Wait  a  minute. 
I  am  not  through.  Be  seated  again,  please.  I  sent 
out  about  thirty  copies  of  the  papers  such  as  you  re- 
ceived," she  went  on.  "Some  fifteen  replies  were  sent 


192  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

back.  Yours  proved  to  be  the  only  possible  one  among 
them.  That  is  why  I  have  summoned  you  here  today. 
.  The  position  of  my  private  secretary  is  a  peculiar  one, 
and  difficult  to  fill.  Miss  Armstrong  has  been  with 
me  some  years.  She  leaves  to  be  married."  (Mar- 
ried! This  sallow  creature.)  "She  leaves  to  marry 
an  officer  in  England.  She  is  obliged  to  sail  tomorrow. 
Some  one  to  take  her  place  had  been  engaged,  but  a 
death — a  sudden  death — makes  it  impossible  for  the 
other  youngi  lady  to  keep  her  contract  with  me.  Now 
the  season  is  well  advanced.  I  am  returning  to  town 
late  this  year.  My  town  house  is  being  prepared  for 
immediate  occupancy.  The  servants  are  there  now. 
I  return  to  it  tomorrow.  On  Thursday  I  have  a  large 
dinner.  My  social  calendar  for  the  month  is  very  full. 
You  are  young — frightfully  young — to  fill  a  position 
of  such  responsibility  as  Miss  Armstrong's.  My  pri- 
vate secretary  takes  care  of  practically  all  my  cor- 
respondence. But  many  of  the  letters  I  asked  you  to 
write  in  the  test  I  sent  are  letters  which  actually  must 
be  written  within  the  next  few  days.  Your  answers 
pleased  me,  Miss  Vars — yes,  pleased  me  very  much, 
I  might  say."  She  got  up  (I  rising  too)  and  procured 
a  fresh  handkerchief  from  a  silver  box  on  a  table. 
She  touched  it,  folded,  to  her  nose. 

"The  salary  to  begin  with  is  to  be  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  dollars  a  month,"  she  remarked.  She 
shook  out  the  handkerchief,  then  she  added,  coughing 
slightly  first  behind  the  sheer  square  of  linen,  "I 
should  like  you  to  start  in  upon  your  duties,  Miss 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL  GAINS  WINGS     193 

Vars,  as  soon  as  possible — tomorrow  morning  if  it  can 
be  arranged." 

I  was  taken  unawares.    I  had  not  expected  this. 

"Why — but  do  you  think — I'm  sorry,"  I  stumbled, 
"but  on  further  consideration  I  feel  that  I " 

"Wait  a  minute,  please.  Before  you  give  me  an 
answer  it  is  fair  to  explain  your  position  more  in  de- 
tail. It  is  an  official  position.  Your  hours  are  from 
ten  to  four.  You  are  in  no  sense  maid  or  companion. 
You  live  where  you  think  best,  are  entirely  independ- 
ent, quite  free,  the  mistress  of  your  own  affairs.  I  am 
a  busy  woman.  The  demands  upon  my  time  are  such 
that  I  require  a  secretary  who  can  do  more  than  add 
columns  of  figures,  though  that  she  must  do  too.  She 
must  in  many  cases  be  my  brains,  my  tact,  convey  in 
my  correspondence  fine  shades  of  feeling.  It  is  a  po- 
sition requiring  peculiar  talent,  Miss  Vars,  and  one,  I 
should  say,  which  would  be  attractive  to  you.  During 
the  protracted  absence  of  an  only  son  of  mine,  who  is 
occupying  my  London  house,  I  shall  be  alone  in  my 
home  this  winter.  You  may  have  until  this  evening  to 
think  over  your  answer.  Don't  give  it  to  me  now.  It 
is  better  form,  as  well  as  better  judgment,  never  to  be 
hasty.  I  liked  your  letters,"  she  smiled  graciously 
upon  me  now.  "After  this  interview  I  like  them  still. 
I  like  you.  I  think  we  would  get  on." 

A  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  a  month!  The 
still  unmarried  Breck  safe  in  England!  My  almost 
empty  trunk!  Why  not?  Why  not  accept  the  posi- 
tion? Was  I  not  free  from  fear  of  what  people  would 


194  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

say?  Had  I  not  already  broken  the  confining  chains 
of  "what's  done,"  and  "what  isn't  done?"  I  needed 
the  work ;  it  was  respectable ;  Breck  was  in  England ; 
a  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  a  month;  my  trunk 
almost  empty. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  need  a  position  as  badly  as  you 
seem  to  need  a  secretary,  Mrs.  Sewall.  We  might  try 
each  other  anyway.  I'll  think  it  over.  I  won't  decide 
now.  I  will  let  you  know  by  five  o'clock  this  after- 
noon." 

I  accepted  the  position.  Mrs.  Plummet  shed  real 
tears  when  I  told  her  my  good  news  at  six  o'clock  that 
night;  and  more  tears  a  fortnight  later  when  I  moved 
out  of  my  little  hall  bedroom,  and  my  feather-weight 
trunk,  lightsomely  balanced  on  the  shoulders  of  one 
man,  was  conveyed  to  the  express-wagon  and  thence 
to  new  lodgings  in  Irving  Place. 

It  was  in  the  new  lodgings  that  my  new  life  really 
began.  Its  birth  had  been  difficult,  the  pains  I  had 
endured  for  its  existence  sharp  and  recurring,  but 
here  it  was  at  last — a  lovely,  interesting  thing.  I  could 
observe  it  almost  as  if  it  was  something  I  could  hold 
in  my  two  hands.  Here  it  was — mine,  to  watch  grow 
and  develop ;  mine  to  tend  and  nurture  and  persuade ; 
my  life  at  last,  to  do  with  as  I  pleased. 

At  the  suffrage  headquarters  I  had  run  across  a 
drab-appearing  girl  by  the  name  of  Esther  Claff,  and 
it  was  with  her  that  I  shared  the  room  in  Irving  Place. 

She  was  writing  a  book,  and  used  to  sit  up  half  the 
night.  She  was  a  college-educated  girl,  who  had  been 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL   GAINS  WINGS     195 

trained  to  think  logically.  Social  and  political  ques- 
tions were  keen  delights  to  Esther  Claff.  She  took  me 
to  political  rallies;  we  listened  to  speeches  from  anar- 
chists and  socialists ;  we  attended  I.  W.  W.  meetings ; 
we  heard  discussions  on  ethical  subjects,  on  religion, 
on  the  white-slave  traffic,  equal  suffrage,  trusts.  Life 
at  all  its  various  points  interested  Esther  Claff.  She 
was  a  plain,  uninteresting  girl  to  look  at,  but  she  pos- 
sessed a  rare  mind,  as  beautifully  constructed  as  the 
inside  of  a  watch,  and  about  as  human,  sometimes  I 
used  to  think. 

She  was  very  reticent  about  herself,  told  me  almost 
nothing  of  her  early  life  and  seemed  to  feel  as  little 
curiosity  about  mine.  I  lived  with  Esther  Claff  a 
whole  winter  with  never  once  an  expression  from  her 
of  regard  or  affection.  I  wondered  sometimes  if  she 
felt  any.  Esther  was  an  example,  it  seemed  to  me,  of 
a  woman  who  had  risen  above  the  details  of  human 
life,  petty  annoyances  of  friendships,  eking  demands  of 
a  community.  I  had  heard  her  voice  tremble  with 
feeling  about  some  reforms  she  believed  in,  but  evi- 
dently she  had  shaken  off  all  desire  for  the  human 
touch.  I  wished  sometimes  that  Esther  wasn't  quite 
so  emancipated. 

My  associates  were  Esther's  associates — college 
friends  of  hers  for  the  most  part,  a  circle  of  girls  who 
inspired  me  with  their  enthusiasms  and  star-high  as- 
pirations. They  were  living  economically  in  various 
places  in  New  York,  all  keenly  interested  in  what  they 
were  doing.  There  was  Flora  Bennett,  sleeping  in  a 


196  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

tiny  room  with  a  skylight  instead  of  uptown  with  her 
family,  because  her  father  wouldn't  countenance  his 
daughter's  becoming  a  stenographer,  making  her  beg 
spending  money  from  him  every  month  like  a  child. 
There  was  Anne  DeBois  who  had  left  a  tyrannical 
parent  who  didn't  believe  in  educating  girls,  and 
worked  her  way  through  college.  There  was  a  settle- 
ment worker  or  two ;  there  was  poor,  struggling  Rosa 
who  tried  to  paint;  Sidney,  an  eager  little  sculptor; 
Elsie  and  Lorraine,  two  would-be  journalists,  who 
lived  together,  and  who  were  so  inseparable  we  called 
them  Alsace  and  Lorraine;  there  was  able  Maria 
Brown,  an  investigator  who  used  to  spend  a  fortnight 
as  an  employee  in  various  factories  and  stores  and 
write  up  the  experience  afterwards. 

There  were  few  or  no  men  in  our  life.  Esther  and  I 
frequented  our  friends'  queer  little  top-story  studios 
in  dark  alleys  for  recreation,  and  got  into  deep  dis- 
cussions on  life  and  reforms.  Sometimes  we  cele- 
brated to  the  extent  of  a  sixty-cent  table  d'hote  dinner 
in  tucked-away  restaurants.  We  occupied  fifty-cent 
seats  at  the  theater  occasionally,  and  often  from  dizzy- 
ing heights  at  the  opera  would  gaze  down  into  the 
minaret  boxes  below,  while  I  recalled  with  a  little 
feeling  of  triumph  that  far-distant  time  when  I  had 
sat  thus  emblazoned  and  imprisoned. 

I  had  cut  loose  at  last.  I  was  proud  of  myself.  In 
the  secret  of  my  soul  I  strutted.  I  was  like  a  boy  in 
his  first  long  trousers.  I  might  not  yet  show  myself 
off  to  the  family.  They  would  question  the  propriety 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL  GAINS  WINGS     197 

of  my  occupation  with  Mrs.  Sewall,  but  nevertheless 
I  had  not  failed.  Sometimes  lying  in  my  bed  at  night 
with  all  the  vague,  mysterious  roar  of  New  York  out- 
side, my  beating  heart  within  me  seemed  actually  to 
swell  with  pride.  I  was  alone  in  New  York;  I  was 
independent;  I  was  self-supporting;  I  was  on  the  way 
to  success.  I  used  to  drop  off  to  sleep  on  some  of  those 
nights  with  the  sweet  promise  of  victory  pervading 
my  whole  being. 

One  day  I  ran  across  an  advertisement  in  the  back 
of  a  magazine  representing  a  single  wheel  with  a  pair 
of  wings  attached  to  its  hub.  It  was  traveling  along 
without  the  least  difficulty  in  the  world.  So  was  I. 
The  fifth  wheel  had  acquired  wings ! 


CHAPTER    XXI 

IN   THE   SEWALL   MANSION 

IN  spite  of  Mrs.  Sewall's  crowded  engagement  cal- 
endar, she  was  a  woman  with  very  few  close  friends. 
She  was  very  clever;  she  could  converse  ably;  she 
could  entertain  brilliantly ;  and  yet  she  had  been  unable 
to  weave  herself  into  any  little  circle  of  loyal  compan- 
ions. She  was  terribly  lonely  sometimes. 

For  the  first  half-dozen  weeks  our  relations  were 
strictly  official.  And  then  one  day  just  as  I  was  leav- 
ing to  walk  back  to  my  rooms  as  usual,  Mrs.  Sewall, 
who  was  just  getting  into  her  automobile,  asked  me 
if  I  would  care  to  ride  with  her.  The  lights  were  all 
aglow  on  Fifth  Avenue.  We  joined  the  parade  in 
luxurious  state.  This  was  what  I  once  had  dreamed 
of — to  be  seated  beside  Mrs.  F.  Rockridge  Sewall  in 
her  automobile,  creeping  slowly  along  Fifth  Avenue 
at  dusk.  Life  works  out  its  patterns  for  people  cun- 
ningly, I  think.  I  made  some  such  remark  as  I  sat 
there  beside  Mrs.  Sewall. 

"How?  Tell  me,"  she  said,  "how  has  it  worked  out 
its  pattern  cunningly  for  you?" 

We  had  never  mentioned  our  former  relations.  I 
didn't  intend  to  now. 

198 


IN  THE  SEWALL  MANSION         199 

"Oh,"  I  said,  side-stepping  what  was  really  in  my 
mind,  "cunningly,  because  here  I  am,  in  a  last  winter's 
hat  and  a  sweater  for  warmth  underneath  my  old 
summer's  suit,  and  yet  I'm.  happy.  If  life  has  woven 
me  into  such  a  design  as  that — I  think  it's  very  clever 
of  it." 

"Are  you  happy?"  questioned  Mrs.  Sewall." 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  am,"  I  replied  honestly.  "That,  of 
course,  isn't  saying  I  am  not  just  a  little  lonely  some- 
times. But  I'm  interested.  I'm  terribly  interested, 
Mrs.  Sewall." 

"Well,  but  weren't  you  interested  when  you  were  a 
debutante?  You  referred  to  having  been  a  debutante, 
you  remember,  once.  Weren't  you,  as  you  say,  ter- 
ribly interested  then?" 

"Yes,  in  a  way,  I  suppose  I  was.  But  I  believe  t hen 
I  was  interested  in  myself,  and  what  was  good  for  my 
social  success,  and  now — it  sounds  painfully  self- 
righteous — but  now  I'm  interested  in  things  outside. 
I'm  interested  in  what's  good  for  the  success  of  the 
world."  I  blushed  in  the  dusk.  It  sounded  so  af- 
fected. "I  mean,"  I  said,  "I'm  interested  in  reforms 
and  unions,  and  suffrage,  and  things  like  that.  I  used 
to  be  so  awfully  individualistic." 

"Individualistic!  Where  do  you  run  across  these 
ideas  ?  A  girl  like  you.  Parasitism,  and  suffrage !  Is 
my  secretary  a  suffragette?"  she  asked  me  smilingly. 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "I  believe  that  woman's  awaken- 
ing is  one  of  the  greatest  forces  at  work  today  for 
human  emancipation." 


200  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Well,  well,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Sewall.  "So  my  sec- 
retary thinks  if  women  vote,  all  the  wrinkles  in  this 
old  world  will  be  ironed  out." 

I  knew  I  was  being  made  fun  of  a  little,  but  I  was 
willing  nevertheless. 

"The  influence  suffrage  will  have  on  politics  will  not 
be  so  important  as  the  influence  it  will  have  on  ethics 
and  conventions,"  I  replied,  "and  I  believe  it  will  have 
such  a  beneficial  influence  that  it  will  be  worth  Uncle 
Sam's  trouble  to  engage  a  few  more  clerks  to  count 
the  increased  number  of  ballots." 

"Well— well.  Is  that  so?"  smiled  Mrs.  Sewall, 
amused.  "Do  you  think  women  competent  to  sit  on 
juries,  become  just  judges,  and  make  unbiased  and 
fair  decisions?  What  have  you  to  say  to  that,  Miss 
Enthusiast?" 

"Women  are  untrained  now,  of  course,  but  in  time 
they  will  learn  the  manners  of  positions  of  trust,  as 
men  have,  through  being  ridiculed  in  print,  through 
bitter  experiences  of  various  kinds.  If  they  are  given 
a  few  years  at  it,  they'll  learn  that  they  can't  afford  to 
be  hasty  and  pettish  in  public  positions,  as  they  could 
in  their  own  little  narrow  spheres  at  home.  A  child 
who  first  goes  to  school  is  awfully  new  at  it.  He 
sulks,  cries,  wants  his  own  way ;  he  hasn't  learned  how 
to  work  with  others.  Neither  have  women  yet,  but 
suffrage  will  help  us  toward  it." 

"I  had  no  idea  you  were  such  a  little  enthusiast. 
Come,  don't  you  want  to  have  tea  with  me  and  my 


IN  THE  SEWALL  MANSION        201 

friend  Mrs.  Scot-Williams?  I'm  to  meet  her  at  the 
Carl.  She  enjoys  a  girl  with  ideas." 

"In  this  ?"  I  indicated  my  suit.  We  were  drawing 
up  to  the  lighted  restaurant,  where  costly  lace  veiled 
from  the  street  candle-lighted  tables. 

"In  that?"  Mrs.  Sewall  looked  at  me  and  smiled. 
"Talk  as  you  have  to  me,  my  dear,  and  she  will  not 
see  what  your  soul  goes  clothed  in." 

My  enemy — Mrs.  Sewall!  My  almost  friend  now! 
She  could  sting,  but  she  could  make  honey  too.  Bitter- 
sweet. I  went  with  her  to  drink  some  tea. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  our  intimate  relations. 
Mrs.  Sewall  invited  me  the  very  next  day  to  lunch  with 
her  in  the  formal  dining-room,  with  the  Sewall  por- 
traits hanging  all  around.  We  talked  more  suffrage. 
It  seemed  to  amuse  her.  She  was  not  particularly  in- 
terested in  the  woman's  movement.  It  simply  served 
as  an  excuse. 

One  stormy  evening  not  long  after  the  luncheon 
invitation  Mrs.  Sewall  invited  me  to  stay  all  night. 
She  was  to  be  alone  and  had  no  engagement.  She 
asked  me  frequently  after  that.  We  slipped  into  rela- 
tions almost  affectionate.  I  discovered  that  Mrs.  Sew- 
all  enjoyed  my  reading  aloud  to  her.  I  found  out  one 
day,  when  her  maid,  who  was  an  hourly  irritation  to 
her,  was  especially  slow  about  arranging  her  veil, 
that  my  fingers  pleased  and  satisfied.  Often,  annoyed 
beyond  control,  she  would  exclaim,  "Come,  come, 
Marie,  how  clumsy  you  are !  All  thumbs !  Miss  Vars, 
do  you  mind?  Would  you  be  so  kind?"  Often  I 


202  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

found  myself  buttoning  gloves,  untangling  knots  in 
platinum  chains,  and  fastening  hooks. 

As  late  fall  wore  into  early  winter,  frequently  I 
presided  at  the  tea-table  in  Mrs.  Sewall's  library — the 
inner  holy  of  holies,  upstairs  over  the  drawing-room. 
"Perkins  is  so  slow"  (Perkins  was  the  butler)  "and 
his  shoes  squeak  today.  Would  you  mind,  Miss  Vars? 
You're  so  swift  and  quiet  with  cups." 

Once  she  said,  in  explanation  of  her  friendliness : 
"I've  never  had  anything  but  a  machine  for  a  private 
secretary  before.  Miss  Armstrong  was  hardly  a  com- 
panionable person.  No  sense  of  humor.  But  an  ex- 
cellent machine.  Oh,  yes — excellent.  Better  at  fig- 
ures than  you,  my  dear  Miss  Vars,  but  oh,  her  com- 
plexion! Really  I  couldn't  drink  tea  with  Miss  Arm- 
strong. I  never  tried  it,  but  I'm  sure  it  would  not 
have  been  pleasant.  You  have  such  pretty  coloring, 
my  dear.  Shan't  I  call  you  Ruth  some  day?" 

Spontaneously  it  burst  out.  I  had  never  had  the  af- 
fection of  an  older  woman.  I  grasped  it. 

"Do,  yes,  do  call  me  Ruth,"  I  exclaimed. 

I  had  once  believed  I  could  please  this  difficult 
woman.  I  had  not  been  mistaken.  It  was  proved.  I 
did  please  her.  She  called  me  Ruth ! 

I  wrote  her  letters  for  her,  I  kept  her  expenses,  I 
cut  her  coupons,  I  all  but  signed  her. generous  checks 
to  charitable  institutions.  Most  willingly  I  advised 
her  in  regard  to  them.  She  sent  five  hundred  dollars 
to  Esther  ClafFs  settlement  house  in  the  Jewish  quar- 
ter on  my  suggestion,  and  bought  one  of  Rosa's  paint- 


'I  was  the  only  one  in  her  whole  establishment  whom  she 
wasn't  obliged  to  treat  as  a  servant  and  menial" 

— Page  203 


IN  THE  SEWALL  MANSION        203 

ings,  which  she  gave  to  me.  She  wanted  me  to  go 
with  her  to  her  dressmaker's  and  her  milliner's.  She 
consulted  me  in  regard  to  a  room  she  wanted  to  re- 
decorate, a  bronze  that  she  was  considering.  She 
finally  confided  in  me  her  rheumatism  and  her  diabetes. 
I  was  with  her  every  day.  Always  after  her  late 
breakfast  served  in  her  room,  she  sent  for  me.  After 
all  it  wasn't  surprising.  I  should  have  to  be  very  dull 
and  drab  indeed  not  to  have  become  her  friend.  I 
was  the  only  one  in  her  whole  establishment  whom  she 
wasn't  obliged  to  treat  as  servant  and  menial. 

Of  everything  we  talked,  even  of  Breckenridge — of 
Breckenridge  as  a  baby,  a  boy,  a  college-man.  She 
explained  his  inheritance,  his  weaknesses,  his  virtues. 
She  spoke  of  Gale  Oliphant  and  the  interrupted  mar- 
riage. Once — once  only — she  referred  to  me. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,"  she  began  one  day  with  a  sigh, 

"  'the  best-laid  plans  of  mice  and  men' Oh,  dear, 

oh,  dear!  Sometimes  I  think  I  have  made  a  great 
many  mistakes  in  my  life.  For  instance,  my  son — 
this  Breckenridge  I  talk  so  much  about — he,  well,  he 
became  very  fond  of  some  one  I  opposed.  A  nice  girl 
— a  girl  of  high  principles.  Oh,  yes.  But  not  the  girl 
whom  his  mother  had  happened  to  select  for  him.  No. 
His  mother  wished  him  to  marry  his  second  cousin— 
this  Gale  you've  heard  me  speak  of — Gale  Oliphant. 
Breckenridge  was  fond  of  her — always  had  been.  She 
was  worth  millions,  millions! 

"You  see,  a  short  time  before  Breckenridge  formed 
the  attachment  for  the  young  lady  with  the  high  prin- 


204  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

ciples,  his  mother's  lawyer  had  persuaded  her  into  a 
most  precarious  investment.  For  two  years,  a  large 
part  of  her  fortune  trembled  uncertainly  on  the  edge 
of  a  precipice.  She  believed  that  her  son  required  less 
a  girl  with  high  principles  of  living,  than  a  girl  with 
principles  represented  by  quarterly  dividends.  Breck- 
enridge  would  not  make  a  success  as  a  man  without 
means.  But  as  I  said — 'the  best-laid  plans  of  mice  and 
men!' 

"Oh,  well,  perhaps  you  read  the  story.  Most  un- 
fortunate. It  was  in  the  papers.  It  nearly  broke  me. 
A  law-suit  on  the  eve  of  my  son's  marriage  to  Miss 
Gale  Oliphant.  After  I  had  successfully  brought  the 
affair  to  the  desired  climax  too!  Oh,  most  unfor- 
tunate ! 

"The  suit  was  brought  by  a  creature  who  had  no 
claims.  Put  up  to  it  by  unscrupulous  lawyers  of  no 
repute.  We  paid  the  money  that  she  asked  to  hush 
up  the  notoriety  of  the  affair,  but  not  before  the  mis- 
chief of  breaking  off  the  relations  with  Miss  Oliphant 
had  been  nicely  accomplished.  That  was  over  a  year 
ago.  My  investments  have  proved  successful.  Gale  is 
married  to  a  man  twice  her  age.  Breckenridge  is  still 
in  England." 

"And  what's  become  of  the  girl  you  didn't  approve 
of?"  I  asked  lightly,  threading  my  needle.  I  was 
sewing  that  day. 

"The  girl  with  the  high  principles?"  Mrs.  Sewall 
queried.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said  distinctly,  slowly. 
"I  don't  know,  I  wish  I  did.  If  you  should  ever  run 


IN  THE  SEWALL  MANSION        205 

across  her,  tell  her  to  come  and  make  herself  known  to 
me,  please.  I've  something  to  say." 

"I  will,"  I  said,  carefully  drawing  the  thread 
through  my  needle  and  making  a  knot.  "If  I  ever  run 
across  her.  I  doubt  if  I  do.  I've  learned  that  that  girl 
has  gone  on  a  long  journey  to  a  new  and  engrossing 
country." 

"Oh  ?  I  must  send  a  message  to  her  somehow  then. 
Come  here,  my  dear.  Come  here.  I've  got  my  glasses 
caught." 

I  laid  down  my  work  and  crossed  over  to  Mrs. 
Sewall.  It  was  true.  The  chain  was  in  a  knot.  I 
untangled  it. 

"How  deft  you  are !"  she  exclaimed  softly.  "Thank 
you,  dear.  Thank  you."  Then  she  put  her  cold  white 
fingers  on  my  arm,  and  patted  it  a  little.  She  smiled 
very  sweetly  upon  me. 

"My  private  secretary  pleases  me  better  every  day !" 
she  said. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE   PARADE 

I  DIDN'T  tell  Lucy  that  I  was  with  Mrs.  Sewall.  I 
had  my  mail  directed  to  Esther's  college  club.  I 
rather  hated  to  picture  the  terrible  curses  that  Edith 
would  call  down  upon  my  head  when  she  heard  that  I 
was  occupying  a  position  which  she  would  certainly 
term  menial.  I  dreaded  to  learn  what  Tom  would  say 
of  me.  Already  I  had  seen  Malcolm  one  day  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  bowed  to  him  from  the  Sewall  automo- 
bile. Surely,  he  would  report  me ;  but  either  he  didn't 
recognize  me,  or  else  he  didn't  recognize  Mrs.  Sewall, 
for  Lucy's  letters  proved  she  was  still  ignorant  of  my 
occupation.  I  accepted  kind  fate's  protection  of  me; 
I  lived  in  precious  and  uninterrupted  seclusion. 

Of  course,  I  marched  in  the  suffrage  parade  when  it 
took  place  in  May.  I  rode  on  Mrs.  Scot-Williams' 
beautiful,  black,  blue-ribbon  winner.  Mrs.  Scot-Wil- 
liams, Mrs.  Sewall,  and  a  group  of  other  New  York 
society  women  tossed  me  flowers  from  a  prominent 
balcony  as  I  rode  up  Fifth  Avenue.  I  carried  only  the 
American  flag.  It  was  my  wish.  I  wanted  no  slogan. 
"Let  her  have  her  way,"  nodded  Mrs.  Scot-Williams 
to  the  other  ladies.  "The  dear  child's  eyes  will  tell 
the  rest  of  the  story." 

206 


THE  PARADE  207 

The  parade  was  a  tremendous  experience  to  me. 
Even  the  long  tedious  hours  of  waiting  before  it 
started  were  packed  with  significance.  There  we  all 
were,  rich  and  poor ;  society  women  and  working  girls ; 
teachers,  stenographers,  shirtwaist  makers;  actresses, 
mothers,  sales-women;  Catholic  and  Protestant;  Jew 
and  Gentile;  black  and  white;  German,  French,  Pole 
and  Italian — all  there,  gathered  together  by  one  great 
common  interest.  The  old  sun  that  shone  down  upon 
us  that  day  had  never  witnessed  on  this  planet  such  a 
leveler  of  fortune,  station,  country  and  religion.  The 
petty  jealousies  and  envies  had  fallen  away,  for  a 
period,  from  all  us  women  gathered  there  that  day, 
and  the  touch  of  our  joined  hands  inspired  and  thrilled. 
Not  far  in  front  of  me  in  the  line  of  march  there  was 
a  poor,  old,  half-witted  woman,  who  became  the  target 
of  gibes  and  jeers ;  I  felt  fierce  protection  of  her.  Be- 
hind me  were  dozens  of  others  who  were  smiled  or 
laughed  at  by  ridiculing  spectators;  I  felt  protection 
of  them  all. 

For  hours  before  the  parade  started  I  sat  on  the 
curbing  of  the  side-walk  with  a  prominent  society 
woman  on  one  side,  and  a  plain  little  farmer's  wife 
from  up  state  on  the  other.  We  talked,  and  laughed, 
and  ate  sandwiches  together  that  I  bought  in  a  grimy 
lunch-room. 

When  finally  the  parade  started,  and  I,  mounted  on 
Mrs.  Scot-Williams'  beautiful  Lady  F,  felt  myself 
moving  slowly  up  Fifth  Avenue  to  the  martial  music 
of  drums,  brass  horns,  and  tambourines;  sun  shining, 


2o8  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

banners  waving,  above  me  my  flag  making  a  sky  of 
stars  and  stripes,  and  behind  me  block  upon  block  of 
my  co-workers;  I  felt  uplifted  and  at  the  same  time 
humbled. 

"Here  we  come,"  I  felt  like  saying.  "Here  we  come 
a  thousand  strong — all  alike,  no  one  higher  than  an- 
other. Here  we  come  in  quest.  We  come  in  quest  of 
a  broader  vision  and  a  bigger  life.  We  come,  shoe- 
strings dragging,  skirts  impeding,  wind  disheveling, 
holding  on  to  inappropriate  head-gear,  feathers  awry, 
victims  of  old-time  convictions,  unadapted  to  modern 
conditions,  amateur  marchers,  poorly  uniformed — but 
here  we  come — just  count  us — here  we  come !  You'll 
forget  the  shoe-strings  after  you've  watched  a  mile  of 
us.  You'll  forget  the  conspicuous  fanatics  among  us 
(every  movement  has  its  lunatic  fringe,  somebody  has 
said),  you'll  forget  the  funny  remarks,  the  jokes  of 
newsboys,  and  the  humorous  man  you  stood  beside, 
after  your  legs  begin  to  feel  stiff  and  weary,  and  still 
we  keep  on  coming,  squad  upon  squad,  band  upon  band, 
banner  upon  banner." 

As  I  rode  that  day  with  all  my  sisters  I  felt  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  the  inspiration  of  cooperation. 
It  flashed  across  me  that  the  picture  of  the  wheel  with 
the  wings  was  as  untrue  as  it  was  impossible.  I  had 
made  a  mistake.  I  was  not  that  sort  of  wheel.  I 
wasn't  superfluous.  I  was  a  tiny  little  wheel  with 
cogs.  I  was  set  in  a  big  and  tremendous  machine — 
Life,  and  beside  me  were  other  wheels,  which  in  their 
turn  fitted  into  other  cogs  of  more  and  larger  wheels. 


THE  PARADE  209 

And  to  make  life  run  smoothly  we  all  must  work  to- 
gether, each  quietly  turning  his  own  big  or  small  cir- 
cumference as  he  had  been  fashioned.  Alone  nothing 
could  be  accomplished.  Wings  indeed!  Fairy-tales. 
Cog-wheels  must  mesh.  Human  beings  must  coop- 
erate. 

That  night  I  had  promised  to  spend  with  Mrs. 
Sewall.  I  didn't  want  to.  I  wanted  to  see  Esther 
Claff.  I  wanted  to  hear  the  tremor  of  her  voice,  and 
watch  her  faint  blue  eyes  grow  bright  and  black.  To- 
night she  would  put  on  her  little  ugly  brown  toque  and 
gray  suit,  and  join  the  other  girls,  in  somebody's  studio 
or  double  bedroom.  There  would  be  great  talk  to- 
night! We  had  all  marched  in  one  company  or  an- 
other. I  wanted  to  hear  how  the  others  felt.  My 
feelings  were  tumultuous,  confused.  I  longed  for 
Esther's  fervor  and  calm  eloquence.  But  I  had  prom- 
ised Mrs.  Sewall;  she  had  been  particularly  anxious; 
I  couldn't  go  back  on  my  word  now ;  she  dreaded  lonely 
evenings ;  and  I  was  glad  that  I  hadn't  telephoned  and 
disappointed  her  when  I  finally  did  arrive  a  little  be- 
fore dinner. 

She  took  my  hand  in  both  of  hers;  she  looked 
straight  into  my  eyes,  and  if  I  couldn't  hear  Esther's 
voice  tremble,  then  instead  I  could  hear  Mrs.  Sewall's. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  am  very  proud  of  you.  You 
were  very  beautiful,  this  afternoon.  You  will  always 
do  me  credit." 

I  leaned  and  kissed  her  hand  half  playfully.  "I 
shall  try  anyhow,"  I  said  lightly. 


210  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

Mrs.  Sewall  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  touched 
it  to  her  eyes,  then  slipped  one  of  her  arms  through 
mine,  and  rested  her  jeweled  hand  on  my  wrist,  pat- 
ting it  a  little. 

"What  a  dear  child  you  are!"  she  murmured.  "I 
have  grown  fond  of  you.  I  want  you  to  know — to- 
night, when  your  eyes  are  telling  me  the  fervor  that  is 
glowing  in  that  arduous  soul  of  yours,  how  completely 
you  satisfy  me.  It  may  be  one  more  little  triumph 
to  add  to  your  day's  joy.  I  want  you  to  know  that  if 
ever  it  was  in  my  power  to  place  my  wealth  and  my 
position  on  you,  dear  child,  it  would  be  the  greatest 
happiness  of  my  life.  I  have  given  myself  the  liberty 
of  confiding  much  in  you,  of  taking  you  into  the  inner 
courts,  my  dear.  You  are  as  familiar  with  my  ex- 
penditures as  with  your  own ;  you  are  acquainted  with 
my  notions  upon  distribution,  charitable  requests,  wise 
and  foolish  investments;  you  appreciate  my  ideas  in 
regard  to  handling  great  fortunes ;  you  agree  with  me 
that  masters  of  considerable  amounts  of  money  are 
but  temporary  keepers  of  the  world's  wealth,  and  must 
leave  their  trust  for  the  next  steward  in  clean,  healthy, 
and  growing  condition ;  you  have  been  apprenticed  to 
all  my  dearest  hopes  and  ambitions.  Ah,  yes,  yes, 
very  creditably  would  you  wear  my  crown.  With  what 
grace,  intelligence,  and  appreciation  of  values  would 
you  move  among  the  other  monitors  of  great  fortunes, 
admired  by  them,  praised,  and  loved,  I  think.  What  a 
factor  for  good  you  could  become!  Your  expansive 
sympathies — what  resources  they  would  assume.  Ah, 


THE  PARADE  211 

well,  well,  you  see  I  like  to  paint  air-castles.  I  like  to 
put  you  into  them.  This  afternoon  when  I  saw  you 
mounted  like  some  inspired  goddess  on  that  superb 
creature  of  Mrs.  Scot-Williams',  and  caught  the  mur- 
mur that  passed  over  the  little  company  on  the  balcony 
as  you  approached,  I  thought  to  myself,  'She's  made 
for  something  splendid.'  And  you  are,  my  dear — you 
are.  Something  splendid.  Who  knows,  my  air-castles 
may  come  true." 

"O  Mrs.  Sewall,"  I  said  softly,  "I'm  not  worthy  of 
such  kind  words  as  those." 

"There,  there,"  she  interrupted.  She  had  heard  the 
catch  in  my  voice.  "There.  Think  nothing  more 
about  it.  We  won't  talk  seriously  another  moment. 
Dinner  will  be  announced  directly.  Let  us  have  Per- 
kins light  a  fire." 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

AN    ENCOUNTER    WITH    BRECK 

MRS.  SEWALL  didn't  remain  long  with  me  in  the 
library  after  dinner.  She  excused  herself  to 
retire  early.  I  was  to  read  aloud  to  her  later,  when 
Marie  called  me.  I  was  dawdling  over  a  bit  of  sew- 
ing as  I  waited.  My  thoughts  were  busy,  my  cheeks 
hot.  The  experience  of  the  day,  climaxing  in  Mrs. 
Sewall's  warm  words,  had  excited  me,  I  suppose.  I 
wondered  if  first  nights  before  footlights  on  Broadway 
could  be  more  thrilling  than  this  success  of  mine. 
Was  it  my  new  feeling  of  sisterhood  that  so  elated  me 
— or  was  it,  more,  Mrs.  Sewall's  capitulation?  Was  I 
still  susceptible  to  flattery? 

"Well,  hello!"  suddenly  somebody  interrupted. 

I  recognized  the  voice.  My  heart  skipped  a  beat,  I 
think,  but  my  practiced  needle  managed  to  finish  its 
stitch. 

"Hello,  there,"  the  voice  repeated,  and  I  looked  up 
and  saw  Breckenridge  Sewall  smiling  broadly  at  me 
from  between  heavy  portieres. 

"Hello,  Breck,"  I  said,  and  holding  my  head  very 
high  I  inquired,  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Oh,  I'm  stopping  here,"  he  grinned.  "What  are 
you  doing?" 

212 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  BRECK     213 

"You  know  very  well  what  I'm  doing,"  I  replied. 
'I'm  your  mother's  private  secretary.  What  are  you 
doing  around  here,  Breck  ?" 

He  laughed.  "You  beat  'em  all.  I  swear  you  do! 
What  am  I  doing  around  here!  You'd  think  I  didn't 
have  a  right  in  my  own  house.  You'd  think  it  was 
your  house,  and  I'd  broken  in.  Well,  seeing  you  ask, 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  doing.  I'm  observing  a  darned 
pretty  girl,  sitting  in  the  corner  of  one  of  my  sofas, 
in  my  library,  and  I  don't  object  to  it  at  all — not  at  all. 
Make  yourself  quite  at  home,  my  girl.  Look  here, 
aren't  you  glad  to  see  a  fellow  back  again?"  He  came 
over  to  me.  "Put  your  hand  there  in  mine  and  tell 
me  so  then.  I've  just  come  from  the  steamer.  No- 
body's extended  greetings  to  me  yet.  I'm  hurt." 

"Haven't  you  seen  your  mother?"  I  inquired  coolly. 

"Not  yet.  The  old  lady'll  keep.  You  come  first  on 
the  program,  little  private  secretary.  Good  Lord — 
private  secretary!  What  do  you  know  about  that? 
Say,  you're  clever.  Gee !"  he  broke  off,  "but  it's  good 
to  get  back.  You're  the  first  one  I've  seen  except 
Perkins.  Surprised?"  He  rested  both  hands  on  the 
table  beside  me,  and  leaned  toward  me.  I  kept  on  sew- 
ing. "Come,  come,"  he  said,  "put  it  down.  Don't  you 
recollect  I  never  was  much  on  patience?  Come,  little 
private  secretary,  I'm  just  about  at  the  end  of  my 
rope." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go  upstairs  and  see  your 
mother,"  I  replied  calmly.  "Did  she  expect  you?" 

"Sure.     Sure,  my  dear.     I  'phoned  the  mater  to 


214  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

vanish.  Savvy?"  He  was  still  leaning  toward  me. 
"Come,  we're  alone.  I  dropped  everything  on  the 
spot  to  come  to  you.  Now  don't  you  suppose  you  can 
manage  to  drop  that  fancy-work  stuff  to  say  you're 
glad  to  see  me?" 

"Please,  Breck,"  I  said,  moving  away  from  him  a 
little.  He  was  very  near  me.  "Don't  be  in  such  a 
hurry.  Please.  You  always  had  to  give  me  time,  you 
know.  Would  you  mind  opening  a  window?  It's  so 
warm  in  here.  And  then  explain  this  surprising  situa- 
tion ?  I'd  thank  you  if  you  would." 

"It  is  hot  in  here,"  he  said,  leaning  still  nearer,  "hot 
as  hell,  or  else  it's  the  sight  of  you  that  makes  my 
blood  boil,"  he  murmured. 

I  moved  away  again,  reeled  off  some  more  thread 
and  threaded  my  needle. 

"You  don't  fall  off!"  Breck  went  on.  "You  don't 
lose  your  looks.  By  gad,  you  don't !" 

"If  you  touch  the  bell  by  the  curtain  there,"  I  said, 
"Perkins  will  come  and  open  the  window  for  us." 

"Good  Lord,"  Breck  exclaimed,  "you're  the  coolest 
proposition  I  ever  ran  across.  All  right.  Have  your 
own  way,  my  lady.  You  always  have  been  able  to 
twist  me  around  your  little  finger.  Here  goes."  And 
he  strode  across  to  the  front  window,  pulled  the  hang- 
ings back  and  threw  open  a  sash.  I  felt  the  cool  air 
on  the  back  of  my  neck.  Breck  came  back  and  stood 
looking  down  at  me  quizzically.  I  kept  on  taking 
stitches.  "Keep  right  at  it,  industrious  little  one,"  he 
smiled.  "Sew  as  long  as  you  want  to.  /  don't  mind. 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  BRECK    215 

I  don't  have  to  go  out  again  to  get  home  tonight.  I'm 
satisfied.  Stitch  away,  dear  little  Busy  Bee."  He  took 
out  a  cigarette  and  lit  it ;  then  suddenly  sat  down  on  the 
sofa  beside  me,  leaned  back  luxuriously,  and  in  silence 
proceeded  to  send  little  rings  of  smoke  ceilingward. 
"Lovely!"  he  murmured.  "True  felicity!  I've 
dreamed  of  this!  This  is  something  like  home  now, 
my  beauty.  This  is  as  it  ought  to  be !  I  always  wear 
holes  in  the  heels  too,  my  love.  And  no  knots,  kindly." 

"Breck,"  I  interrupted  finally,  "is  your  mother  in 
this?" 

"We're  all  in  it,  my  dear  child." 

"Will  you  explain?" 

"Sure,  delighted.  Sit  up  on  my  hind  legs  and  beg 
if  you  want  me  to.  Anything  you  say.  It  was  this 
way.  I  was  in  London  when  mater  happened  to  men- 
tion the  name  of  her  jewel  of  a  secretary.  I  was  about 
to  start  off  on  a  long  trip  in  the  yacht — Spain,  South- 
ern France,  Algiers.  Stocked  all  up.  Supplies,  crew, 
captain — everything  all  ready.  'I  don't  care  what  be- 
comes of  'em,'  I  said,  when  I  got  news  where  you  were. 
'I  don't  care.  Throw  'em  overboard.  Guests  too.  I 
don't  give  a  hang.  Throw  them  over — Lady  Dun- 
barton,  and  the  Grand  Duke  too.  Drown  'em !  There's 
somebody  back  in  New  York  who  has  hung  out  her 
little  Come-hither  sign  for  me,  and  I'm  off  for  the  little 
home-burg  in  the  morning.' ' 

"Come-hither    sign!      0    Breck,    you're    mistaken. 


216  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Hold  on,  my  innocent  little  child,  I  wasn't  born  day 
before  yesterday.  But  let  that  go.  I  won't  insist.  I've 
come  anyhow."  He  leaned  forward.  "I'm  as  crazy 
about  you  as  ever/'  he  said  earnestly.  "I  never  cared 
a  turn  of  my  hand  for  any  one  but  you.  Queer  too,  but 
it's  so.  I'm  not  much  on  talking  love— the  real  kind, 
you  know — but  I  guess  it  must  be  what  I  feel  for  you. 
It  must  be  what  is  keeping  me  from  snatching  away 
that  silly  stuff  there  in  your  hand,  and  having  you  in 
my  arms  now — whether  you'd  like  it  or  not.  Say," 
he  went  on,  "I've  come  home  to  make  this  house  really 
yours,  and  to  give  you  the  right  of  asking  what  I'm 
doing  around  here.  You've  won  all  your  points — 
pomp,  ceremony,  big  wedding,  all  the  fuss,  mater's 
blessing.  The  mater  is  just  daffy  about  you — ought  to 
see  her  letters.  You're  a  winner,  you're  a  great  little 
diplomat,  and  I'm  proud  of  you  too.  I  shall  take  you 
everywhere — France,  England,  India.  You'll  be  a 
queen  in  every  society  you  enter — you  will.  By  Jove 
— you  will.  Here  in  New  York,  too,  you'll  shine,  you 
little  jewel;  and  up  there  at  Hilton,  won't  we  show 
them  a  few  things?  You  bet!  Say — I've  come  to  ask 
you  to  marry  me.  Do  you  get  that  ?  That's  what  I've 
come  for — to  make  you  Mrs.  Breckenridge  Sewall." 

I  sat  very  quietly  sewing  through  this  long  speech  of 
Breck's.  The  calm,  regular  sticking  in  and  pulling  out 
of  my  needle  concealed  the  tumult  of  my  feelings.  I 
thought  I  had  forever  banished  my  taste  for  pomp  and 
glory,  but  I  suppose  it  must  be  a  little  like  a  man  who 
has  forsworn  alcohol.  The  old  longing  returns  when 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  BRECK    217 

he  gets  a  smell  of  wine,  and  sees  it  sparkling  within 
arm's  reach. 

As  I  sat  contemplating  for  a  moment  the  bright  and 
brilliant  picture  of  myself  as  Breck's  wife,  favored 
by  Mrs.  Sewall,  envied,  admired  by  my  family,  horn- 
aged  by  the  world,  the  real  mistress  of  this  magnifi- 
cent house,  I  asked  myself  if  perhaps  fate,  now  that 
I  had  left  it  to  its  own  resources  in  regard  to  Breck, 
did  not  come  offering  this  prize  as  just  reward.  And 
then  suddenly,  borne  upon  the  perfumed  breeze  that 
blew  through  the  open  window,  I  felt  the  sharp  keen 
stab  of  a  memory  of  a  Spring  ago — fields,  New  Eng- 
land— fields  and  woods;  brooks;  hills;  a  little  apart- 
ment of  seven  rooms,  bare,  unfurnished;  and  some- 
body's honest  gray  eyes  looking  into  mine.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  very  embodiment  of  that  memory  had  passed 
near  me.  It  must  have  been  that  some  flowering  tree 
outside  in  the  park,  bearing  its  persuasive  sweetness 
through  the  open  window,  touched  to  life  in  my  con- 
sciousness a  memory  imprinted  there  by  the  perfume 
of  some  sister  bloom  in  New  England.  I  almost  felt 
the  presence  of  him  with  whom  I  watched  the  trees 
bud  and  flower  a  Spring  ago.  Even  though  some  subtle 
instinct  prompted  Breck  at  this  stage  to  rise  and  put 
down  the  window,  the  message  of  the  trees  had  reached 
me.  It  made  my  reply  to  Breck  gentle.  When  he  came 
back  to  me  I  stood  up  and  put  aside  my  needle-work. 

"Well?"  he  questioned., 

"I'm  so  sorry.    I  can't  marry  you,  Breck.    I  can't." 

"Why  not?    Why  can't  you?    What's  your  game? 


218  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

What  do  you  want  of  me?  Don't  beat  around.  I'm 
serious.  What  do  you  mean  'you  can't  ?' ' 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  don't  care  enough  for  you,  Breck. 
I  wish  I  did,  but  I  just  don't." 

"Oh,  you  don't !  That's  it.  Well,  look  here,  don't 
let  that  worry  you.  I'll  make  you  care  for  me.  I'll 
attend  to  that.  Do  you  understand?"  And  suddenly 
he  put  his  arms  about  me.  "I'll  marry  you  and  make 
you  care,"  he  murmured.  I  felt  my  hot  cheek  pressed 
against  his  rough  coat,  and  smelled  again  the  old  fa- 
miliar smell  of  tobacco,  mixed  with  the  queer  eastern 
perfume  which  Breck's  valet  always  put  a  little  of  on 
his  master's  handkerchief.  "You've  got  to  marry  me. 
You're  helpless  to  do  anything  else — as  helpless  as  you 
are  now  to  get  away  from  me  when  I  want  to  hold  you. 
I'm  crazy  about  you,  and  I  shall  have  you  some  day 
too.  If  it's  ceremony  you  want,  it's  yours.  Oh,  you're 
mine — mine,  little  private  secretary.  Do  you  hear  me  ? 
You're  mine.  Sooner  or  later  you're  mine." 

He  let  me  go  at  last. 

I  went  over  to  a  mirror  and  fixed  my  hair. 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  done  that,"  I  said,  and  rang  for 
Perkins.  He  came  creaking  in,  in  his  squeaky  boots. 

"Perkins,"  I  said,  "will  you  call  a  taxi  for  me? 
I'm  not  staying  with  Mrs.  Sewall  now  that  she  has  her 
son  here.  Please  tell  her  that  I  am  going  to  Esther's." 

"I  shall  see  that  you  get  there  safely,"  warned  Breck. 
"I've  rights  while  you're  under  this  roof." 

"It  isn't  necessary,  Breck.  I  often  walk.  I'm  used 
to  going  about  alone.  But  do  as  you  please.  How- 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  BRECK  219 

ever,  if  you  do  come,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  not  to  treat 
me  as  if — as  if — as  you  just  did.  I've  given  all  that  to 
somebody  else." 

"Somebody  else,"  he  echoed. 

"Yes,"  I  nodded.  "Yes,  Breck;  yes — somebody 
else." 

"Oh !"  he  said.  "Oh !"  and  stared  at  me.  I  could 
see  it  hit  him. 

"I'll  go  and  put  my  things  on,"  I  explained,  and 
went  away. 

When  I  came  back  he  was  standing  just  where  I  had 
left  him.  Something  moved  me  to  go  up  and  speak 
to  him.  I  had  never  seen  Breckenridge  Sewall  look 
like  this. 

"Good-night,  Breck,"  I  said.    "I'm  sorry." 

"You!  Sorry!"  he  laughed  horribly.  Then  he 
added,  "This  isn't  the  last  chapter — not  by  a  long  shot. 
You  can  go  alone  tonight — but  remember — this  isn't 
the  last  chapter." 

I  rode  away  feeling  a  little  uneasy.  I  longed  to  talk 
to  some  one.  What  did  he  mean?  What  did  he 
threaten?  If  only  Esther — but  no,  we  had  never  been 
personal.  She  knew  as  little  about  the  circumstances 
of  my  life  as  I  about  hers.  She  could  not  help  me. 
Anyway  it  proved  upon  my  arrival  at  the  rooms  in 
Irving  Place  that  Esther  was  not  there. 

I  sat  down  and  tried  to  imagine  what  Breck  could 
imply  by  the  "last  chapter."  At  any  rate  I  decided  that 
the  next  one  was  to  resign  my  position  as  Mrs.  Sewall's 


220  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

secretary.  That  was  clear.  I  wrote  to  her  in  my 
most  careful  style.  I  told  her  that  until  she  was  able 
to  replace  me,  I  would  do  my  best  to  carry  on  her  cor- 
respondence in  my  rooms  in  Irving  Place.  She  could 
send  her  orders  to  me  by  the  chauffeur;  I  was  sorry; 
I  hoped  she  would  appreciate  my  position ;  she  had  been 
very  good  to  me;  Breckenridge  would  explain  every- 
thing, and  I  was  hers  faithfully,  Ruth  Chenery  Vars. 

Esther  didn't  come  back  all  night — nor  even  the 
next  day.  I  could  have  sallied  forth  and  found  some  of 
our  old  associates,  I  suppose;  but  I  knew  that  they 
would  all  still  be  discussing  the  parade,  and  somehow 
I  wanted  no  theorizing,  no  large  thinking.  I  wanted 
no  discussion  of  the  pros  and  cons  of  big  questions  and 
reforms.  I  wanted  a  little  practical  advice — I  wanted 
somebody's  sympathetic  hand. 

About  seven  o'clock  the  next  evening,  the  telephone 
which  Esther  and  I  had  indulged  in  interrupted  my 
lonely  contemplations  with  two  abrupt  little  rings.  I 
got  up  and  answered  it  weakly.  I  feared  it  would  be 
Mrs.  Sewall — or  Breck,  but  it  wasn't. 

"Is  that  you,  Ruth?" 

Bob !    It  was  Bob  calling  me !    Bob's  dear  voice ! 

"Yes,"  I  managed  to  reply.  "Yes,  Bob.  Yes, 
it's  I." 

"May  I  see  you?" 

"Yes,  you  may  see  me." 

"When?    May  I  see  you  now?" 

"Why,  yes.    You  may  see  me  now." 

"All  right.     I'm  at  the  Grand  Central.    Just  in.     I 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  BRECK  221 

called  your  other  number  and  they  gave  me  this.  I 
don't  know  where  it  is.  Will  you  tell  me  ?" 

I  could  feel  the  foot  that  my  weight  wasn't  on 
trembling.  "Yes,  I'll  tell  you,"  I  said,  "but  I'd  rather 
meet  you — some  nicer  place.  Couldn't  I  meet  you?" 

"Yes — if  you'd  rather.     Can  you  come  now?" 

"Yes,  now,  Bob,  this  very  minute." 

"All  right,  then."  He  named  a  hotel.  "The  tea- 
room in  half  an  hour.  Good-by." 

"Good-by,"  I  managed  to  finish;  and  I  was  glad 
when  I  hung  up  the  receiver  that  Esther  wasn't  there. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

THE   OPEN    DOOR 

NO  one  would  have  guessed  who  saw  a  girl  in  a 
dark-blue,  tailored  suit  enter  the  tea-room  that 
evening  about  seven  o'clock,  and  greet  a  man,  with  a 
brief  and  ordinary  hand-shake,  that  there  was  a  tremor 
of  knees  and  hammering  of  heart  underneath  her  quiet 
colors;  and  that  the  touch  of  the  man's  bare  hand,  even 
through  her  glove,  sent  something  zigzagging  down 
through  her  whole  being,  like  a  streak  of  lightning 
through  a  cloud.  All  she  said  was:  "Hello,  Bob. 
I've  come,  you  see."  And  he  quietly,  "Yes,  I  see. 
You've  come." 

He  dropped  her  hand.  They  looked  straight  into 
each  other's  eyes  an  instant. 

"Anything  the  matter  with  anybody  at  home?"  she 
questioned. 

"Oh,  no,  nothing,"  he  assured  her.  "Everybody's 
all  right.  Are  you  all  right,  Ruth?" 

"Yes,"  she  smiled.  (How  good  it  was  to  see  him. 
His  kind,  kind  eyes!  He  looked  tired — a  little.  She 
remembered  that  suit.  It  was  new  last  Spring.  What 
dear,  intimate  knowledge  she  still  possessed  of  him.) 
"Yes,"  she  smiled,  "I'm  all  right." 

222 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  223 

"Had  dinner?"  he  questioned. 

"No,  not  a  bite."  She  shook  her  head.  (How 
glowing  and  fresh  he  was,  even  in  spite  of  the  tired 
look.  She  knew  very  well  what  he  had  done  with  the 
half-hour  before  he  met  her;  he  had  made  himself 
beautiful  for  her  eyes.  How  well  acquainted  she  was 
with  all  the  precious,  homely  signs,  how  completely  he 
had  been  hers  once.  There  was  the  fountain-pen,  with 
its  peculiar  patent  clasp,  in  its  usual  place  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  In  that  same  pocket  was  a  pencil, 
nicely  sharpened,  and  a  small  note-book  with  red 
leather  covers.  She  knew!  She  had  rummaged  in 
that  waistcoat  pocket  often.) 

They  went  into  the  dining-room  together.  They  sat 
down  at  a  small  table  with  an  electric  candle  on  it, 
beside  a  mirror.  A  waiter  stood  before  them  with 
paper  and  raised  pencil.  They  ordered,  or  I  suppose 
they  did,  for  I  believe  food  was  brought.  The  girl 
didn't  eat  a  great  deal.  Another  thing  I  noticed — she 
didn't  trust  herself  to  look  long  at  a  time  into  the  man's 
eyes.  She  contented  herself  with  gazing  at  his  cuffed 
wrist  resting  on  the  table's  edge,  and  at  his  hands. 
His  familiar  hands !  The  familiar  platinum  and  gold 
watch  chain  too !  Did  it  occur  to  him,  when  at  night 
he  wound  his  watch,  that  a  little  while  ago  it  had  been 
a  service  she  was  wont  to  perform  for  him?  How 
thrillingly  alive  the  gold  case  used  to  seem  to  her — 
warmed  by  its  nearness  to  his  body.  Oh,  dear,  oh, 
dear — what  made  her  so  weak  and  yearning  tonight? 
What  made  her  so  in  need  of  this  man?  What  would 


224  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

Esther  Claff  think  ?  What  would  Mrs.  Scot-Williams 
say? 

"Well,  Ruth,"  the  man  struck  out  at  last,  after  the 
waiter  had  brought  bread  and  water  and  butter,  and 
the  menu  had  been  put  aside,  "Well — when  you're 
ready,  I  am.  I  am  anxious  to  hear  all  that's  happened 
— if  you're  happy — and  all  that." 

The  girl  dragged  her  gaze  away  fiom  him.  "Of 
course,  Bob,"  she  said,  "of  course  you  want  to  know, 
and  I  am  going  to  tell  you  from  beginning  to  end. 
There's  a  sort  of  an  end  tonight,  and  it  happens  I  need 
somebody  to  tell  it  to,  quite  badly.  I  needed  an  old 
friend  to  assure  me  that  I've  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 
I  think  you're  the  very  one  I  needed  most  tonight, 
Bob."  And  quite  simply,  quite  frankly,  the  girl  told 
him  her  story — there  was  nothing  for  her  to  hide  from 
him — it  was  a  relief  to  talk  freely. 

The  effect  of  her  story  upon  the  man  seemed  to  act 
like  stimulant.  It  elated  him;  she  didn't  know  why. 
"What  a  brick  you  are,  Ruth,"  he  broke  out.  "How 
glad  I  am  I  came  down  here — what  a  little  brick  you 
are !  I  guess  you're  made  of  the  stuff,  been  dried  and 
baked  in  a  kiln  that  insures  you  against  danger  of 
crumbling.  It's  only  an  unthinking  fool  who  would 
ever  be  afraid  for  you.  You  need  to  fear  nothing  but 
a  splendid  last  chapter  to  your  life,  whoever  may 
threaten.  Oh,  it's  good  to  see  you,  Ruth — how  good 
you  cannot  quite  guess.  I  saw  you  yesterday  in  the 
parade — Lucy  and  Will  too — and  I  got  as  near  home 
as  Providence,  when  suddenly  I  thought  I'd  turn 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  225 

around  and  come  back  here.  I  was  a  little  disturbed, 
anxious — I'll  acknowledge  it — worried  a  bit — but  now, 
now — the  relief !" 

"You  thought  I  was  wasting  away  in  a  shirtwaist 
factory !"  she  laughed. 

He  laughed  too.  "Not  quite  that.  But,  never  mind, 
we  don't  need  to  go  into  what  I  thought,  but  rather 
into  what  I  think — what  I  think,  Ruth — what  I  shall 
always  think."  Compelling  voice!  Persuasive  gaze! 
She  looked  into  his  eyes.  "Ruth!"  The  man  leaned 
forward.  "We've  made  a  mistake.  What  are  you 
down  here  for  all  alone,  anyhow?  And  what  am  I 
doing,  way  up  there,  longing  for  you  day  after  day, 
and  missing  you  every  hour  ?  My  ambitions  have  be- 
come meaningless  since  you  have  dropped  out  of  my 
future.  What  is  it  all  for?  For  what  foolish  notion, 
what  absurd  fear  have  we  sacrificed  the  most  precious 

thing  in  the  world?  Yesterday  when  I  saw  you 

Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I  need  you.  Come  as  you  are. 
I  shan't  try  to  make  you  over.  There's  only  one  thing 
that  counts  after  all,  and  that  is  ours." 

With  some  such  words  as  these  did  Bob  frighten  me 
away  from  the  sweet  liberties  my  thoughts  had  been 
taking  with  him.  I  had  been  like  some  hungry  little 
mouse  that  almost  boldly  enters  human  haunts  if  he 
thinks  he  is  unobserved,  but  at  the  least  noise  of  invi- 
tation scampers  away  into  his  hole.  I  scampered  now 
— fast.  My  problems  were  not  yet  solved.  I  had 
things  I  must  prove  to  Lucy,  to  Edith,  to  Tom — things 
I  must  test  and  prove  to  myself.  I  could  not  go  to  him 


226  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

now.  Besides,  all  the  reasons  that  stood  in  the  way  of 
our  happiness  existed  still,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  our 
joy  of  meeting  blinded  us  to  them  for  the  moment. 
I  tried  to  make  it  clear  to  Bob. 

"You  can't  have  changed  in  a  winter,  Bob,  and  I 
haven't.  We  decided  so  carefully,  weighed  the  conse- 
quences of  our  decision.  We  were  wise  and  courage- 
ous. Let's  not  go  back  on  it.  I  don't  know  what  con- 
clusions about  life  I  may  reach  finally,  but  I  want  to  be 
able  to  grow  freely.  I'm  like  a  bulb  that  hasn't  been 
put  in  the  earth  till  just  lately.  I  don't  know  what  sort 
of  flower  or  vegetable  I  am,  and  you  don't  either.  It's 
been  good  to  see  you,  Bob,  and  I  needed  some  one  to 
tell  me  that  I  was  all  right,  but  now  you  must  go  away 
and  let  me  grow." 

"You  wouldn't  want  to  come  and  grow  in  my  green- 
house then  ?"  he  smiled  sadly. 

I  shook  my  head.  "That's  just  it,  Bob.  I  don't 
want  to  grow  in  any  green-house  yet.  I  want  to  be 
blown  and  tossed  by  all  the  winds  of  the  world  that 
blow." 

"I'll  let  you  grow  as  you  wish,"  he  persisted. 

"Please,  Bob,"  I  pleaded.    "Please- 

He  turned  away.    I  didn't  want  to  hurt  him. 

"Bob,"  I  said  gently,  "please  understand.  It  isn't 
only  that  I  think  the  reasons  for  our  decision  of  a  year 
ago  still  exist,  but  I've  just  got  to  stay  here  now,  Bob, 
even  though  I  don't  want  to.  I've  got  it  firmly  fixed 
in  my  mind  now  that  I'm  going  to  see  my  undertaking 
through  to  a  successful  end.  I'm  bound  to  show  Tom 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  227 

and  the  family  what  sort  of  stuff  I'm  made  of.  I'm 
going  to  prove  that  women  aren't  weak  and  vacillat- 
ing. Why,  I  haven't  been  even  a  year  here  yet.  I 
couldn't  run  to  cover  the  first  time  I  found  myself  out 
of  a  position.  Besides  the  first  position  wasn't  one  I 
could  exhibit  to  the  family.  I  must  stay.  I'm  just  as 
anxious  to  prove  myself  a  success  as  a  young  man 
whose  family  doesn't  think  he's  got  it  in  him.  Please 
understand,  and  help  me,  Bob." 

"Shall  we  see  each  other  sometimes?"  he  queried. 

"It's  no  use.  It  doesn't  help,"  I  said.  "I  do  care 
for  you,  somehow,  and  seeing  you  seems  to  make 
foggy  what  was  so  clear  and  crystal,  as  if  I  were  look- 
ing at  it  through  a  mist.  I  mean  sitting  here  with  you 
makes  me  feel — makes  me  forget  what  I  marched  for 
day  before  yesterday.  I  was  so  full  of  it — of  all  it 

meant  and  stood  for — and  now No,  Bob.  No. 

You  must  let  me  work  these  things  out  alone.  I  shall 
never  be  satisfied  now  until  I  do." 

He  left  me  at  my  door.  There  was  a  light  in  the 
windows  upstairs,  and  I  knew  that  Esther  had  come 
home.  Bob  left  me  with  just  an  ordinary  hand-shake. 
It  hurt  somehow — that  formal  little  ceremony  from 
him.  It  hurt,  too,  afterward  to  stand  in  the  doorway 
and  watch  him  walking  away.  It  hurt  to  hear  the 
sound  of  his  steady  step  growing  fainter  and  fainter. 
O  Bob,  you  might  have  turned  around  and  waved! 

I  went  upstairs.  "Hello,"  said  Esther.  "Where 
have  you  been?"  and  I  told  her  to  dinner  with  a  man 
from  home.  A  little  later  I  announced  to  her  that  I 


228  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

had  resigned  my  position  as  private  secretary  to  Mrs. 
Sewall.  She  asked  no  questions  but  she  made  her  own 
slow  deductions. 

I  must  have  impressed  her  as  restless  and  not  very 
happy  that  night.  I  caught  her  looking  at  me  sus- 
piciously, once  or  twice,  over  her  gold-bowed  reading- 
glasses.  Once  she  inquired  if  I  was  ill,  or  felt  fever- 
ish. My  cheeks  did  burn. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "but  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed.  It's 
almost  midnight." 

Esther  took  off  her  glasses  and  rubbed  her  eyes. 

"One  gets  tired,  sometimes,  climbing,"  she  observed. 
I  waited.  "The  trail  up  the  mountain  of  Self-discov- 
ery is  not  an  easy  one.  One's  unaccustomed  feet  get 
sore,  and  one's  courage  wavers  when  the  trail  some- 
times creeps  along  precipices  or  shoots  steeply  up  over 
rocks.  But  I  think  the  greatest  test  comes  when  the 
little  hamlets  appear — quiet,  peaceful  little  spots,  with 
smoke  curling  out  of  the  chimneys  of  nestling  houses. 
They  offer  such  peace  and  comfort  for  weary  feet. 
It's  then  one  is  tempted  to  throw  away  the  mountain- 
staff  and  accept  the  invitation  of  the  open  door  and 
welcoming  hearth." 

"Oh,  Esther,"  I  exclahned,  "were  you  afraid  I  was 
going  to  throw  away  my  mountain-staff?" 

"Oh,  no,  no.  I  was  simply  speaking  figuratively." 
She  would  not  be  personal. 

"I'm  not  such  a  poor  climber  as  all  that,"  I  went  on. 
"I  am  a  bit  discouraged  tonight.  You've  guessed  it, 
but  I  am  not  for  giving  up." 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  229 

"If  one  ever  gets  near  the  top  of  the  mountain  of 
Self-discovery,"  Esther  pursued  dreamily,  "he  becomes 
master  not  only  of  his  own  little  peak,  but  commands  a 
panorama  of  hundreds  of  other  peaks.  He  not  only 
conquers  his  own  difficult  trail,  but  wins,  as  reward 
for  himself,  vision,  far-reaching." 

I  loved  Esther  when  she  talked  like  this. 

"Well,"  I  assured  her,  "I  am  going  to  get  to  the  top 
of  my  peak,  if  it  takes  a  life-time.  No  hamlets  by  the 
wayside  for  me,"  I  laughed. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  corrected.  "Never  to  the  top,  Ruth 
— not  here.  The  top  of  the  mountain  of  Self-discovery 
is  hidden  in  the  clouds  of  eternity.  We  can  simply 
approach  it.  So  then,"  she  broke  off,  "you  aren't  de- 
serting me  ?" 

"Of  course  I'm  not,  Esther,"  I  assured  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do  next,  then — if  you're 
leaving  Mrs.  Sewall?" 

"I  don't  know.  Don't  ask.  I'm  new  at  mountain- 
climbing,  and  when  my  trail  crawls  along  precipices, 
I  refuse  to  look  over  the  edge  and  get  dizzy.  Some- 
thing will  turn  up." 

The  next  morning's  mail  brought  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Sewall.  My  services  would  not  be  needed  any  longer. 
Enclosed  was  a  check  which  paid  me  up  to  the  day  of 
my  departure.  In  view  of  the  circumstances,  it  would 
be  wiser  to  sever  our  connections  immediately.  Owing^ 
to  the  unexpected  return  of  her  son,  they  were  both 
starting  within  a  few  days  for  the  Pacific  coast. 
Therefore,  she  would  suggest  that  I  return  immedi- 


230  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

ately  by  express  all  papers  and  other  property  of  hers 
which  chanced  to  be  in  my  possession.  It  was  a  regret 
that  her  confidence  had  been  so  misplaced. 

I  read  Mrs.  Sewall's  displeasure  in  every  sentence 
of  that  curt  little  note.  If  I  had  been  nursing  the  hope 
for  understanding  from  my  old  employer,  it  was  dead 
within  me  now.  The  letter  cut  me  like  a  whip. 

My  feeling  for  Mrs.  Sewall  had  developed  into  real 
affection.  Her  years,  her  reserve,  her  remoteness  had 
simply  added  romance  to  the  peculiar  friendship.  I 
had  thrilled  beneath  the  touch  of  her  cold  finger-tips. 
There  had  been  moments  lately  when  at  the  kindness 
in  her  eyes  as  they  dwelt  upon  me,  I  had  longed  to  put 
my  arms  around  her  and  tell  her  how  happy  and  proud 
I  was  to  have  entered  even  a  little  way  into  the  warm 
region  near  her  heart.  I  loved  to  please  her.  I  would 
do  anything  for  her  except  marry  Breck,  and  she  could 
write  to  me  like  this !  She  could  misunderstand !  She 
could  all  but  call  me  traitor! 

Very  well.  With  bitterness,  and  with  grim  de- 
termination never  to  plead  or  to  explain,  I  sent  back  by 
the  next  express  the  check-books  and  papers  I  was 
working  on  evenings  in  my  room,  and  also  by  regis- 
tered mail  returned  the  bar  of  pearls  she  had  once 
playfully  removed  from  her  own  dress  and  pinned  at 
my  throat.  "Wear  it  for  me,"  she  had  said.  "If  I 
had  had  a  daughter  I  would  have  spoiled  her  with 
pretty  things,  I  fear.  Allow  an  old  lady  occasionally 
to  indulge  her  whims  on  you,  my  dear." 

I  lay  awake  a  long  time  that  night,  preparing  myself 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  231 

for  the  struggle  that  awaited  me.  I  had  as  little  chance 
now  to  obtain  steady  employment  as  when  I  made  my 
first  attempt.  I  was  still  untrained,  and,  stripped  of 
Mrs.  Sewall's  favor,  still  unable  to  provide  the  neces- 
sary letters  of  reference.  I  hadn't  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing any  tracks  into  which,  on  being  pushed  to  the  bot- 
tom again,  I  could  stick  my  toes,  and  mount  the  way  a 
second  time  more  easily.  Lying  awake  there,  flat  on 
my  back,  I  was  reminded  of  a  little  insect  I  once 
watched  climbing  the  slippery  surface  of  a  window- 
pane.  It  was  a  stormy  day,  and  he  was  on  the  outside 
of  the  window,  buffeted  by  winds.  I  saw  that  little 
creature  successfully  cover  more  than  half  his  journey 
four  successive  times,  only  to  fall  wriggling  on  his  back 
at  the  bottom  again.  When  he  fell  the  fourth  time, 
righted  himself,  and,  dauntless  and  determined,  began 
his  journey  again,  I  picked  him  up  bodily  and  placed 
him  at  the  top.  Possibly — how  could  such  a  small  atom 
of  the  universe  as  I  know — possibly  my  poor  attempts 
were  being  watched  too ! 

However,  I  didn't  wait  to  find  out.  At  least  I  didn't 
wait  to  be  picked  up.  The  very  next  day  I  set  forth 
for  employment  agencies. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

MOUNTAIN    CLIMBING 

THERE  followed  a  long  hot  summer.  There  fol- 
lowed days  of  hopelessness.  There  followed  a 
wild  desire  for  crisp  muslin  curtains,  birds  to  wake 
me  in  the  morning,  a  porcelain  tub,  pretty  gowns,  tea 
on  somebody's  broad  veranda.  There  were  days  in 
mid-July  when  if  I  had  met  Bob  Jennings,  and  he  had 
invited  me  to  green  fields,  or  cool  woods,  I  wouldn't 
have  stopped  even  to  pack.  There  were  days  in  Au- 
gust when  a  letter  from  Breck,  post-marked  Bar  Har- 
bor, and  returned  like  three  preceding  letters  un- 
opened, I  didn't  dare  read  for  fear  of  the  temptation 
of  blue  sea,  and  a  yacht  with  wicker  chairs  and  a  ser- 
vant in  white  to  bring  me  things. 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Esther's  quiet  determination  I 
might  have  crawled  back  to  Edith  any  one  of  those  hot 
Stirling  nights  and  begged  for  admittance  to  the  cool 
chamber  with  the  spinet  desk.  My  head  ached  half  the 
time ;  my  feet  pained  me ;  food  was  unattractive.  The 
dead  air  of  the  New  York  subway  made  me  feel  ill. 
In  three  minutes  it  could  sap  me  of  the  little  hope  I 
carried  down  from  the  surface.  I  used  to  dream 
nights  of  the  bird-like  speed  of  Breckenridge  Sewall's 

232 


MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING  233 

powerful  automobiles.  I  used  to  wake  mornings  long- 
ing for  the  strong  impact  of  wind  against  my  face. 

The  big  city,  the  crowds  of  working  people  that 
once  inspired,  the  great  mass  of  congregated  humanity 
had  lost  its  romance.  Even  my  own  particular  strug- 
gle seemed  to  have  no  more  "punch"  in  it.  The  novelty 
of  my  undertaking,  the  adventure  had  worn  away. 
They  had  been  right  at  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  when  they 
advised  me  a  year  ago  to  go  home  and  give  up  my 
enterprise.  I  had  been  dauntless  then,  but  now,  al- 
though toughened  and  weathered,  discouragement  and 
despair  possessed  me.  I  allowed  myself  to  sit  for  days 
in  the  room  in  Irving  Place,  without  even  trying  for 
a  position. 

It  was  Esther  who  obtained  a  steady  job  for  me  at 
last,  in  a  book-binding  factory  down  near  the  City 
Hall.  From  eight  in  the  morning  until  five  at  night  I 
folded  paper,  over  and  over  and  over  again,  with  a  bone 
folder;  the  same  process — no  change — no  variation. 
The  muscles  that  I  used  ached  like  a  painful  tooth  at 
first.  Some  nights  we  worked  until  nine  o'clock.  Ac- 
curacy and  speed  were  all  that  was  required  to  be  an 
efficient  folder — no  brains,  no  thought — and  yet  I 
never  became  expert.  The  sameness  of  my  work  got 
on  my  nerves  so  at  last — the  everlasting  repetition  of 
sound  and  motion — that  occasionally  I  lost  all  sense  of 
time  and  place.  It  was  like  repeating  some  common 
word  over  and  over  again  until  it  loses  all  significance 
except  that  of  a  peculiar  sound. 

It  broke  me  at  last.    I  became  ill.    What  hundreds 


234  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

of  other  girls  were  able  to  do  every  day  the  year 
round,  had  finished  me  in  three  weeks.  I  was  as  soft 
as  a  baby.  It  was  my  nerves  that  gave  way.  I  got  to 
crying  one  night  over  some  trivial  little  thing,  and  I 
couldn't  stop.  They  took  me  to  a  hospital,  I  don't 
remember  how  or  when.  I  became  aware  of  trained 
nurses.  I  drifted  back  to  the  consciousness  of  a  queer 
grating  sound  near  the  head  of  my  bed,  which  they  told 
me  was  an  elevator;  I  smelled  anesthetics.  I  realized 
a  succession  of  nights  and  days.  There  were  flowers. 
There  was  a  frequent  ringing  of  bells.  Heaven 
couldn't  have  been  more  restful.  I  loved  to  lie  there 
and  watch  a  breeze  blow  the  sash-curtains  at  the  win- 
dows, in  and  out  with  a  gentle,  ship-like  motion. 
Esther  visited  me  often.  Sometimes  she  sat  by  the 
window  alone,  correcting  proof  (she  had  secured  a 
position  in  a  publishing  house  the  first  of  the  sum- 
mer), and  sometimes  one  of  the  other  girls  of  our 
little  circle  was  with  her.  I  never  talked  with  them ;  I 
never  questioned ;  they  came  and  went ;  I  felt  no  curi- 
osity. They  tell  me  I  lay  there  like  that  for  nearly 
three  weeks,  and  then  suddenly  with  no  warning  and 
with  no  sense  of  shock  or  surprise  the  veil  lifted. 

Esther  and  the  struggling  artist  we  called  Rosa  were 
by  the  window.  They  had  both  come  from  the  same 
little  town  in  Pennsylvania.  I'd  been  watching  them 
for  half  an  hour  or  more.  They  had  been  talking.  I 
had  liked  the  murmur  of  their  low  voices.  In  the  most 
normal  fashion  in  the  world  I  began  to  listen  to  their 
conversation. 


MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING  235 

"I  wouldn't  have  had  the  courage,"  I  heard  Rosa 
say. 

"Why  not?"  replied  Esther.  "Her  family  could  do 
no  more  than  is  being  done.  If  they  took  her  home 
now,  she'd  never  come  back  again.  Her  spirit  would 
be  broken.  That  wouldn't  be  good  for  her.  Besides 
they  don't  need  her,  while  I — why,  she's  the  only 
human  being  in  the  world  that's  ever  meant  anything 
in  my  life,  and  I  am  thirty-three.  It  has  been  almost 
like  having  had  a  child  dependent  on  me — having  had 
her,  giving  her  a  new  point  of  view,  taking  care  of  her 
now" 

"Well,  but  how  long  can  you  stand  the  expense  of 
this  private  room,  and  the  doctors?" 

"You  needn't  worry  about  that,"  Esther  shrugged. 

"But  it  seems  a  shame,  Esther,"  burst  out  Rosa, 
"just  when  your  father's  estate  begins  to  pay  you 
enough  income  to  live  on,  and  you  could  devote  the 
best  of  yourself  to  your  book — it  seems  a  shame  not  to 
be  able  to  take  advantage  of  it.  You've  always  said/* 
she  went  on,  "that  a  woman  can't  successfully  begin 
to  create  after  she's  thirty-five.  This  will  certainly 
put  you  behind  a  while.  And  the  room  rent  too !  Does 
she  know  yet  that  you  didn't  tell  her  the  truth  about 
the  price  of  the  room  in  Irving  Place?" 

"No,  Ruth  doesn't  know,"  replied  Esther.  "She's 
very  proud  about  such  matters.  When  she  first  came 
she  had  only  an  empty  trunk,  a  new  job,  and  a  few 
dollars.  Later,  when  I  was  going  to  explain,  she  lost 


236  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

her  position  with  Mrs.  Sewall.  I  was  thankful  I  hadn't 
told  her  then." 

"Well,  I  must  say!"  exclaimed  Rosa  warmly,  "I 
must  say !" 

"Rosa,"  said  Esther.  "You  don't  understand.  If 
Ruth  did  pay  her  full  share  of  the  room,  she  would 
be  obliged  to  leave  me  sooner.  Don't  you  see?  My 
motives  are  selfish.  You're  the  one  person  who  knew 
me  back  there  at  home.  You  have  seen  all  along  how 
stark  and  empty  my  life  has  been — just  my  inde- 
pendence, my  thoughts,  my  ambitions.  That's  all. 
No  one  to  care,  no  one  to  make  sacrifices  for,  no  man, 

no  child Good  heavens,  if  some  human  being 

has  fallen  across  my  way,  don't  be  surprised  if  I  prize 
my  good  fortune." 

I  lay  very  still  listening  to  Esther's  voice.  I  closed 
my  eyes  for  fear  she  might  glance  up  and  meet  the 
tears  in  them,  and  sudden  understanding.  I  had  never 
known  her  till  now.  I  could  feel  the  tears,  in  spite  of 
me,  creeping  down  my  cheeks. 

I  left  the  hospital  a  week  later.  They  sent  me  back 
to  the  room  in  Irving  Place  with  orders  for  long  walks 
in  the  fresh  air,  two-hour  rest  periods  morning  and 
afternoon,  and  a  diet  of  eggs,  chicken,  cream  and 
fresh  green  vegetables.  Ridiculous  orders  for  a  work- 
ing girl  in  New  York!  They  disturbed  Esther.  She 
was  very  quiet,  more  uncommunicative  than  ever.  I 
used  to  catch  her  looking  at  me  in  a  sort  of  anxious 
way.  It  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  wait  to  help  her  with 
her  too-heavy  burden.  Although  I  had  brought  back 


MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING  237 

from  the  hospital  fifteen  pounds  less  flesh  on  my 
bones,  there  was  something  in  my  heart  instead  that 
was  sure  to  make  me  strong  and  well.  My  new  incen- 
tive was  the  secret  knowledge  of  Esther's  devotion. 
To  prove  to  her  that  her  sacrifices  had  not  been  in  vain 
became  my  ambition.  For  a  few  days  I  idled  in  the 
room,  as  the  doctor  ordered;  strolled  about  Gramercy 
Park  near-by,  feeding  my  eyes  on  green  grass  and 
trees;  indulged  in  bus  rides  to  the  Park  occasionally; 
and  walked  for  the  exercise. 

It's  strange  how  easily  some  opportunities  turn  up, 
and  others  can't  be  dug  with  spade  and  shovel.  One 
day,  aimlessly  strolling  along  a  side  street,  up  among 
the  fifties,  a  card  in  a  milliner's  shop  chanced  to  meet 
my  eye.  "Girl  Wanted,"  it  said,  in  large  black  letters. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  If  I  had  set  out  in 
quest  of  that  opportunity,  the  position  would  have 
been  filled  before  I  arrived.  But  this  one  was  still 
open.  They  wanted  a  girl  to  deliver,  and  perhaps  to 
help  a  little  in  the  work-room — sewing  in  linings,  and 
things  like  that.  The  hours  were  short;  the  bundles 
not  heavy;  I  needed  exercise;  it  had  been  ordered  by 
the  hospital. 

The  work  agreed  with  me  perfectly.  It  was  very 
easy.  I  liked  the  varied  rides,  and  the  interesting 
search  for  streets  and  numbers.  It  was  just  diverting 
enough  for  my  mending  nerves.  The  pay  was  not 
much.  I  didn't  object.  I  was  still  convalescing. 

Crossing  Fifth  Avenue  one  day,  rather  overloaded 
with  two  large  bandboxes  which,  though  not  heavy, 


238  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

were  cumbersome,  I  saw  Mrs.  Sewall!  A  kindly 
policeman  had  caught  sight  of  me  on  the  curbing  and 
signaled  for  the  traffic  to  stop.  As  I  started  across,  I 
glanced  up  at  the  automobile  before  which  I  had  to 
pass.  Something  familiar  about  the  chauffeur  caught 
my  attention.  I  looked  into  the  open  back  of  the  car. 
Mrs.  Sewall's  eyes  met  mine.  She  didn't  smile.  There 
was  no  sign  of  recognition.  We  just  stared  for  a 
moment,  and  then  I  hurried  along. 

I  didn't  think  she  knew  me.  My  illness  had  dis- 
guised me  as  if  I  wore  a  mask. 

I  was,  therefore,  surprised  the  next  morning  to 
receive  a  brief  note  from  Mrs.  Sewall  asking  me  to 
be  at  my  room,  if  possible,  that  evening  at  half-past 
eight. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   POT   OF   GOLD 

STHER  was  out  canvassing1  for  suffrage.     She 
canvassed  every  other  evening  now.  She  had  not 
touched  the  manuscript  of  her  book  for  weeks. 

Esther  could  earn  a  dollar  an  evening  at  canvassing. 
One  evening's  canvassing  made  a  dozen  egg-nogs  for 
me.  Esther  poured  them  down  my  throat  in  place  of 
chicken  and  fresh  vegetables.  I  couldn't  stop  her.  I 
wasn't  allowed  even  to  say  "Thank  you." 

"I'd  do  the  same  for  any  such  bundle  of  skin  and 
bones  as  you,"  she  belittled.  "Don't  be  sentimental. 
You'd  do  it  for  me.  We'd  both  do  it  for  a  starved 
cat.  It's  one  of  the  unwritten  laws  of  humanity — 
women  and  children  first,  and  food  for  the  starving." 

She  was  out  "egg-nogging,"  as  I  used  to  call  it, 
when  Mrs.  Sewall  called.  I  had  the  room  to  myself. 
Mrs.  Sewall  had  never  visited  my  quarters  before.  I 
lit  the  lamp  on  our  large  table,  drew  up  the  Morris- 
chair  near  it,  straightened  our  couch-covers,  and  ar- 
ranged the  screen  around  the  chiffoniers.  Mrs.  Sewall 
was  not  late.  I  heard  her  motor  draw  up  to  the  curb- 
ing, scarcely  a  minute  after  our  alarm  clock  pointed 
to  the  half-hour. 

239 


240  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

Marie  accompanied  her  mistress  up  the  one  flight 
of  stairs  to  our  room.  I  heard  them  outside  in  the 
dim  corridor,  searching  for  my  name  among  the  vari- 
ous calling  cards  tacked  upon  the  half-dozen  doors. 
It  was  discovered  at  last.  There  was  a  knock.  I 
opened  the  door. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Mrs.  Sewall,  addressing  her- 
self to  Marie,  who  turned  and  disappeared,  and  then 
briefly  to  me,  "Good  evening." 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Sewall.  Come  in,"  I  replied. 
We  did  not  shake  hands.  I  offered  her  the  Morris- 
chair. 

"No,"  she  said,  "no,  thank  you.  This  will  do." 
And  she  selected  a  straight-backed,  bedroom  chair,  as 
far  away  as  possible  from  the  friendly  circle  of  the 
lamp-light.  "I'm  here  only  for  a  moment,"  she  went 
on,  "on  a  matter  of  business." 

I  procured  a  similar  straight-backed  chair  and  drew 
it  near  enough  to  converse  without  too  much  effort. 
It  was  awkward.  It  was  like  trying  to  play  an  act  on 
a  stage  with  nothing  but  two  straight  chairs  in  the 
middle — no  scenery,  nothing  to  elude  or  soften.  Mrs. 
Sewall,  sitting  there  before  me  in  her  perfect  black,  a 
band  of  white  neatly  edging  her  neck  and  wrists,  veil 
snugly  drawn,  gloves  tightly  clasped,  was  like  some 
hermetically  sealed  package.  Her  manner  was  for- 
bidding, her  gaze  penetrating. 

"So  this  is  where  you  live!"  she  remarked. 

"Yes,  this  is  where  I  live,"  I  replied.  "It's  very 
quiet,  and  a  most  desirable  location." 


THE  POT  OF  GOLD  241 

"Oh!  Quiet!  Desirable!  I  see."  Then  after  a 
pause  in  which  my  old  employer  looked  so  sharply  at 
me  that  I  wanted  to  exclaim,  "I  know  I'm  a  little 
gaunt,  but  I'm  not  the  least  disheartened,"  she  in- 
quired frowning,  "Did  you  remain  in  this  quiet,  de- 
sirable place  all  summer,  may  I  ask?" 

"Well — not  all  summer.  I  was  away  for  three 
weeks — but  my  room-mate,  Miss  Claff,  was  here.  It 
isn't  uncomfortable." 

"Where  were  you  then,  if  not  here?" 

"Why,  resting.     I  took  a  vacation,"  I  replied. 

"You  have  been  ill,"  Mrs.  Sewall  stated  with  final- 
ity, and  there  was  no  kindness  in  her  voice;  it  ex- 
pressed instead  vexation.  "That  is  evident.  You 
have  been  ill.  What  was  the  trouble?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much.     Nerves,  I  suppose." 

"Nerves!  And  why  should  a  girl  like  you  have 
nerves  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  I  smiled.  "I  went  into 
book-binding.  It's  quite  the  fad,  you  know.  Some 
society  women  take  it  up  for  diversion,  but  I  didn't 
like  it." 

"Were  you  in  a  hospital?  Did  your  people  know? 
Were  you  properly  cared  for?"  Each  question  that 
she  asked  came  with  a  little  sharper  note  of  irritation. 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes.  I  was  properly  cared  for.  I  was 
in  a  private  room.  I  have  loyal  friends  here." 

"Loyal  friends!"  scoffed  Mrs.  Sewall.  "Loyal 
friends  indeed!  And  may  I  ask  what  loyal  friend 
allows  you  to  go  about  in  your  present  distressing 


242  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

condition?    You  are  hardly  fit  to  be  seen,  Miss  Vars." 

I  flushed.    "I'm  sorry,"  I  said. 

"Disregard  of  one's  health  is  not  admirable." 

"I'm  being  very  careful,"  I  assured  Mrs.  Sewall. 
"If  you  could  but  know  the  eggs  I  consume!" 

"Miss  Vars,"  inquired  Mrs.  Sewall,  with  obvious 
annoyance  in  her  voice,  "was  it  you  that  I  saw  yes- 
terday crossing  Fifth  Avenue?" 

"With  the  boxes?    It  was  I,"  I  laughed. 

She  frowned.  "I  was  shocked.  Such  occupation 
is  unbecoming  to  you." 

"It  is  a  perfectly  self-respecting  occupation,"  I 
maintained. 

The  frown  deepened.  "Possibly.  Yes,  self-respect- 
ing, but,  if  I  may  say  so,  scarcely  respecting  your 
friends,  scarcely  respecting  those  who  have  cared 
deeply  for  you — I  refer  to  your  family — scarcely  re- 
specting your  birth,  bringing-up,  and  opportunities.  It 
was  distinctly  out  of  place.  The  spectacle  was  not 
only  shocking  to  me,  it  was  painful.  Not  that  what  I 
think  carries  any  weight  with  you.  I  have  been  made 
keenly  aware  of  how  little  my  opinions  count. 
But " 

"Oh,  please — please,  Mrs.  Sewall,"  I  interrupted. 
"Your  opinions  do  count.  I've  wanted  to  tell  you  so 
before.  I  was  sorry  to  leave  you  as  I  did.  I've 
wanted  to  explain  how  truly  I  desired  to  please  you. 
I  would  have  done  anything  within  my  power  ex- 
cept   I  couldn't  do  that  one  special  thing,  any- 
thing but  that." 


THE  POT  OF  GOLD  243 

Mrs.  Sewall  raised  her  hand  to  silence  me.  There 
was  displeasure  in  her  eyes.  "We  will  not  refer  to 
it,  please,"  she  replied.  "It  is  over.  I  prefer  not  to 
discuss  it.  It  is  not  a  matter  to  be  disposed  of  with 
a  few  light  words.  I  have  not  come  here  to  discuss 
with  you  what  is  beyond  your  comprehension.  Pain 
caused  by  a  heedless  girl,  or  a  steel  knife,  is  not  less 
keen  because  of  the  heartlessness  of  either  instrument. 
I  have  come  purely  on  business.  We  will  not  wander 
further." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Sewall  was  tapping  her 
bag  with  a  rapid,  nervous  little  motion.  I  was  keeping 
my  hands  folded  tightly  in  my  lap.  We  were  both 
making  an  effort  to  control  our  feelings.  We  sat 
opposite  each  other  without  saying  anything  for  a 
moment.  It  was  I  who  spoke  at  last. 

"Very  well,"  I  resumed.  "What  is  the  business, 
Mrs.  Sewall?  Perhaps,"  I  suggested  coldly,  "I  have 
failed  to  return  something  that  belongs  to  you." 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Sewall.  "On  the  contrary,  I 
have  something  here  that  belongs  to  you."  She  held 
up  a  package.  "Your  work-bag.  It  was  found  by 
the  butler  on  the  mantel  in  the  library." 

"Oh,  how  careless!  I'm  sorry.  It  was  of  no  con- 
sequence." My  cheeks  flamed.  It  hurt  me  keenly 
that  Mrs.  Sewall  should  insult  the  dignity  of  our  rela- 
tions by  a  matter  so  trivial.  My  work-bag  indeed! 
Behind  her,  in  the  desk,  were  a  few  sheets  of  her  sta- 
tionery ! 


244  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

I  rose  and  took  the  bag.  "Thank  you,"  I  said 
briefly. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  replied. 

I  waited  a  moment.  Then,  as  she  did  not  move,  I 
inquired,  "Shall  I  call  your  maid,  or  will  you  allow 
me  to  take  you  to  your  car?" 

Mrs.  Sewall  did  not  reply.  I  became  aware  of 
something  unnatural  in  her  attitude.  I  noticed  her 
tightly  clasped  hands. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Sewall!"  I  exclaimed.  She  was  ill.  I 
was  sure  of  it  now.  She  was  deathly  pale.  I  kneeled 
down  on  the  floor  and  took  her  hands.  "You  are  not 
well.  Let  me  help — please.  You  are  in  pain." 

She  spoke  at  last.  "Call  Marie,"  she  ordered,  and 
drew  her  hands  away. 

I  sped  down  to  the  waiting  car.  Marie  seemed  to 
comprehend  before  I  spoke. 

"Oh!  Another  attack!  Mon  Dieu!  The  tablets! 
I  have  them.  They  are  here.  Make  haste.  It  is  the 
heart.  They  are  coming  more  often — the  attacks. 
Emotion — and  then  afterwards  the  pain.  She  had  one 
yesterday,  late  in  the  afternoon.  And  now  tonight 
again.  Mon  Dieu — Mon  Dieu !  The  pain  is  terrible." 
All  this  from  Marie  as  we  hastened  up  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Sewall  sat  just  where  I  had  left  her  in  the 
straight-backed  chair.  She  made  no  outcry,  not  the 
slightest  moan,  but  there  were  tiny  beads  of  perspira- 
tion on  her  usually  cool  brow,  and  when  she  took  the 
glass  of  water  that  I  offered,  her  hand  shook  visibly. 


THE  POT  OF  GOLD  245 

She  would  not  lie  down.  She  would  have  nothing 
unfastened.  She  would  not  allow  me  to  touch  her. 

"No,  no.  Marie  understands.  No.  Kindly  allow 
Marie.  Come,  Marie.  Hurry.  Stop  flying  about  so. 
I'm  not  going  to  die.  Hurry  with  the  tablets.  Don't 
be  a  fool.  Make  haste.  There !  Now  I  shall  be  bet- 
ter. Go  away — both  of  you.  Leave  me.  I'll  call 
when  I'm  ready." 

We  stepped  over  to  the  window  and  stood  looking 
out,  while  behind  us  the  heroic  sufferer,  silently  and 
alone,  fought  a  fresh  onslaught  of  pain.  I  longed  to 
help  her,  and  she  would  not  let  me.  I  might  not  even 
assist  her  to  her  automobile.  Ten  minutes  later  on 
her  own  feet  and  with  head  held  erect  she  left  my 
room.  The  only  trace  of  the  struggle  was  a  rip  across 
the  back  of  one  of  the  tight  black  gloves,  caused  by 
desperate  clenching  of  hands.  I  had  heard  the  cry  of 
the  soft  kid  as  I  stood  by  the  window  with  Marie. 

I  opened  my  work-bag  later.  The  square  of  fillet 
lace  was  there,  the  thread  and  the  thimble,  the  needle 
threaded  just  as  I  had  left  it  when  Breck  stepped  in 
and  interrupted.  There  was  something  else  in  the 
bag,  too — something  that  had  not  been  there  before, 
a  white  box,  long  and  thin.  It  contained  the  bar  of 
diamonds  and  pearls,  with  a  note  wrapped  around  it. 

"This  pin,"  the  note  said,  "was  not  a  loan  as  your 
returning  it  assumes.  My  other  employees  received 
extra  checks  at  Easter-time  when  you  received  this. 
If  you  prefer  the  money,  you  can,  at  any  time,  receive 


246  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

the  pin's  value  at 's,  my  jewelers,  from  my 

special  agent,  Mr.  Billings.  It  is  my  hope  that  you 
will  make  such  use  of  this  portion  of  your  earnings 
with  me  that  I  may  be  spared  the  possibility  of  the 
spectacle  you  afforded  me  this  afternoon  on  the 
Avenue. 

"FRANCES  ROCKRIDGE  SEW  ALL." 

The  next  night  when  Esther  came  in  from  canvas- 
sing, there  lay  upon  her  desk  the  neglected  manuscript 
of  her  book,  found  in  a  bottom  drawer.  Before  it 
stood  a  chair;  beside  it  a  drop-light.  A  quill  pen, 
brand  new,  bright  green  and  very  gay,  perched  atop  a 
fresh  bottle  of  ink.  Near-by  appeared  a  small  flat 
book  showing  an  account  between  Esther  Claff  and 
Ruth  Vars  and  an  uptown  bank.  Inside,  between 
roseate  leaves  of  thin  blotting  paper,  appeared  a  de- 
posit to  their  credit  of  five  hundred  dollars. 

The  tide  of  my  fortune  had  changed.  One  good 
thing  followed  another.  It  is  always  darkest  before 
the  storm  breaks  that  clears  the  sky.  My  horizon  so 
lately  dim  and  obscure  began  to  clear.  As  if  five  hun- 
dred dollars,  safely  deposited  in  a  marble-front  bank, 
wasn't  enough  for  one  week  to  convince  me  that  life 
had  something  for  me  besides  misfortune,  three  days 
after  Mrs.  Sewall  called  I  received  a  summons  from 
Mrs.  Scot-Williams,  whose  horse  I  rode  in  the  suffrage 
parade.  Out  of  a  sky  already  cleared  of  its  darkest 
clouds  there  shot  a  shaft  of  light.  I  could  see  nothing 
at  first  but  the  brightness  of  Mrs.  Scot- Williams'  prop- 


THE  POT  OF  GOLD  247 

osition.  It  blinded  me  to  all  else.  I  felt  as  if  some 
enormous  searchlight  from  heaven  had  selected  poor, 
battered  Ruth  Chenery  Vars  for  special  illumination. 

Mrs.  Scot-Williams  had  observed  that  my  place  at 
Mrs.  Sewall's  was  now  filled  by  another.  Therefore 
it  had  occurred  to  her  that  I  might  be  free  to  consider 
another  proposition.  If  so,  she  wanted  to  offer  me  a 
position  in  a  decorator's  shop  which  she  was  inter- 
ested in.  I  might  have  heard  of  it — Van  de  Vere's, 
just  off  Fifth  Avenue. 

Van  de  Vere's — good  heavens — it  was  all  I  could 
do  to  keep  the  tears  out  of  my  eyes!  Five  hundred 
dollars  in  the  bank — and  now  kind  fate  offering  me 
a  seat  in  heaven  that  I  hadn't  even  stood  in  line  for! 
What  did  it  mean? 

Mrs.  Scot-Williams,  across  a  two  by  four  expanse 
of  tablecloth  (we  were  lunching  at  her  club),  slowly 
unfolded  her  proposition  to  me,  held  it  up  for  me  to 
see,  turned  it  about,  as  it  were,  so  that  I  could  catch 
the  light  shining  on  it  from  all  sides,  offered  it  to  me 
at  last  to  have  and  to  hold.  I  accepted  the  precious 
thing. 

"Rainbows  really  do  have  pots  of  gold,  then!"  I 
remember  I  exclaimed. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
VAN  DE  VERB'S 

VAN  DE  VERE'S  was  a  unique  shop.  It  had 
grown  from  a  single  ill-lighted  sort  of  studio 
into  a  very  smart  and  beautifully  equipped  establish- 
ment, conveniently  located  in  the  shopping  district.  It 
looked  like  a  private  house,  had  been,  originally. 
There  were  no  show  windows.  The  door-plate  bore 
simply  the  sign  V.  de  Vs.  A  maid  in  black  and  white 
met  you  at  the  door  (you  had  to  ring),  and  while  she 
went  to  summon  Miss  Van  de  Vere  or  her  assistant, 
you  were  asked  to  be  seated  in  a  reception-room,  done 
in  black  and  white  stripes. 

Virginia  Van  de  Vere  was  as  unique  as  her  shop. 
She  wore  long,  loose  clinging  gowns,  with  heavy,  silver 
chains  clanking  about  her  neck  or  waist.  She  wore 
an  enormous  ring  on  her  forefinger.  Her  hair,  done 
very  low  and  parted,  covered  both  her  ears.  It  was 
black,  so  were  her  eyes.  She  hadn't  any  color.  She 
led  a  smart  and  fashionable  life  outside  business  hours, 
going  out  to  dinner  a  good  deal  (I  had  seen  her  once 
at  Mrs.  Sewall's)  and  making  an  impression  with  free 
and  daring  speech.  She  lived  in  a  gorgeous  apartment 
of  her  own,  and  for  diversion  had  adopted  a  little 

248 


VAN  DE  VERE'S  249 

curly-headed  Greek  boy,  for  whom  she  engaged  the 
services  of  a  French  nurse.  She  was  very  tempera- 
mental. 

Mrs.  Scot-Williams  had  found  Virginia  Van  de 
Vere  some  half  dozen  years  before,  languishing  in  the 
ill-lighted  studio,  on  the  verge  of  shutting  up  shop 
and  going  home  for  want  of  patronage.  It  was  just 
that  kind  of  talented  girl  that  Mrs.  Scot- Williams 
liked  to  help  and  encourage.  She  established  Virginia 
Van  de  Vere. 

Mrs.  Scot-Williams  is  a  philanthropic  woman,  and 
enormously  wealthy.  Her  pet  charity  is  what  she  calls 
"the  little-business  woman."  New  York  is  filled  with 
small  industries  run  by  women,  in  this  loft,  or  that 
shop — clever  women,  too,  talented,  many  of  them,  and 
it  is  to  that  class  that  Mrs.  Scot-Williams  devotes  her- 
self. She  takes  keen  delight  in  studying  the  tricks  and 
secrets  of  business  success.  When  some  young  woman 
to  whom  she  has  lent  capital  to  start  a  cake  and  candy 
shop  complains  of  dull  trade,  or  a  little  French  cor- 
setier  finds  her  customers  falling  off,  Mrs.  Scot-Wil- 
liams likes  to  investigate  the  difficulties  and  suggest 
remedies — more  advertising,  a  better  location,  a  new 
superintendent  in  the  workshop,  one  thing  or  another 
— perhaps  even  a  little  more  capital,  which,  if  she  lends 
and  loses  it,  she  simply  puts  down  under  the  head  of 
charity  in  her  distribution  of  expenses. 

I  had  occurred  to  Mrs.  Scot-Williams  as  a  possible 
means  for  improving  conditions  at  Van  de  Vere's. 
Miss  Van  de  Vere  possessed  so  highly  a  developed 


250  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

artistic  temperament  that  her  manner  sometimes  an- 
tagonized. Her  assistant's  duty,  therefore,  would  be 
that  of  a  cleverly  constructed  fly,  concealing  beneath 
tact  and  pretty  manners  ("and  pretty  gowns,  my 
dear,"  added  Mrs.  Scot-Williams)  a  hook  to  catch 
reluctant  customers. 

I  was  fitted  for  such  a  position.  I  had  been  used 
as  bait  before,  for  other  kind  of  fish.  I  purchased  my 
fine  feathers.  Within  a  fortnight  after  my  interview 
with  Mrs.  Scot-Williams,  I  was  cast  upon  the  waters. 

There  was  no  jealousy  between  Virginia  Van  de 
Vere  and  me.  Beauty  to  her  was  something  pulsing 
and  alive.  If  any  one  suggested  marring  it,  it  tor- 
tured her.  I  was  not  so  sensitive.  The  result  was, 
I  took  charge  of  the  customers  who  mentioned  leather- 
ette dens  and  Moorish  libraries,  and  Virginia's  genius 
was  spared  injury.  She  loved  me  for  it.  We  worked 
beautifully  together. 

Van  de  Vere's  was  my  great  chance.  It  was  indeed 
my  pot  of  gold.  I  had  always  loved  beautiful  things, 
and  here  I  was  in  the  midst  of  their  creating!  Heaven 
had  been  kind.  The  joy  of  waking  in  the  morning  to 
a  day  of  congenial  work,  setting  forth  to  labor  that 
was  constructing  for  me  a  trade  of  my  own,  was  like 
a  daily  tonic.  I  was  very  happy,  full  of  ambition.  I 
used  to  lie  awake  nights  planning  how  I  could  make 
myself  able  and  efficient.  I  discovered  a  course  I  could 
take  evenings  in  Design  and  Interior  Architecture,  and 
I  took  advantage  of  it.  I  read  volumes  at  the  library 
on  period  furniture  and  decorating.  I  haunted  antique 


VAN  DE  VERE'S  251 

shops.  I  perused  articles  on  good  salesmanship. 
Mornings  I  was  up  with  the  birds  (the  pigeons,  that 
is)  and  halfway  to  my  place  of  business  by  eight 
o'clock.  It  agreed  with  me.  I  grew  fat  on  it.  I 
regained  the  pounds  of  flesh  that  I  had  lost  at  the 
hospital  with  prodigious  speed.  Color  came  back  to 
my  cheeks,  song  to  my  lips. 

Esther's  book  actually  towered.  It  wasn't  neces- 
sary for  her  to  keep  her  position  in  the  publishing 
house  any  longer.  It  wasn't  necessary  for  her  to 
conceal  from  me  the  price  of  our  room.  My  salary 
was  generous,  and  with  Esther's  little  income  we  were 
rich  indeed.  We  could  drink  all  the  egg-nogs  we 
wanted  to.  We  could  even  fare  on  chicken  and  green 
vegetables  occasionally.  We  could  buy  one  of  Rosa's 
paintings  for  twenty-five  dollars,  and  lend  fifteen,  now 
and  then,  if  one  of  the  girls  was  in  a  tight  place.  We 
could  afford  to  canvass  for  suffrage  for  nothing.  We 
could  engage  a  bungalow  for  two  or  three  weeks  at 
the  sea  next  year. 

As  soon  as  I  felt  that  my  success  at  Van  de  Vere's 
was  assured,  I  wrote  to  my  family  and  asked  them  to 
drop  in  and  see  me.  The  first  of  the  family  to  arrive 
was  Edith,  one  day  in  February.  Isabel,  the  maid, 
announced  Mrs.  Alexander  Vars  to  me.  I  sent  down 
for  her  to  come  up. 

The  second  floor  of  Van  de  Vere's  looks  almost  like 
a  private  house — a  dining-room  with  a  fine  old  side- 
board, bedroom  hung  with  English  chintz,  a  living- 


252  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

room  with  books  and  low  lamps — sample  rooms,  of 
course,  all  of  them,  but  with  very  little  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  shop  or  warehouse. 

I  met  Edith  in  the  living-room. 

"Hello,  Edith,"  I  said.  She  looked  just  the  same,. 
very  modish,  in  some  brand-new  New  York  clothes, 
I  suppose. 

"Toots!"  she  exclaimed,  and  put  both  arms  about 
me  and  kissed  me.  Then  to  cover  up  a  little  sign  of 
mistiness  in  her  eyes  that  would  show,  she  exclaimed, 
"You're  just  as  good-looking  as  ever.  I  declare  you 
are!" 

"So  are  you,  too,  Edith !"  I  said,  misty-eyed,  too, 
for  some  reason.  I  had  fought,  bled  and  died  with 
Edith  once. 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not.  I've  got  a  streak  of  gray  right 
up  the  front." 

"Really?  Well,  it  doesn't  show  one  bit,"  I  qua- 
vered, and  then,  "It's  terribly  good  to  see  some  one 
from  home." 

Edith  got  out  her  handkerchief. 

"I,  for  one,  just  hate  squabbles,"  she  announced. 

And  "So  do  I,"  I  agreed. 

Later  we  sat  down  together  on  the  sofa.  She  looked 
around  curiously. 

"What  sort  of  a  place  is  this,  anyhow?"  she  asked 
in  old,  characteristic  frankness.  "I  didn't  know  what 
I  was  getting  into.  It  seems  sort  of — I  don't  know — - 
not  quite — not  quite — I  feel  as  if  I  might  be  shut  up 
in  here  and  not  let  out." 


VAN  DE  VERE'S  253 

I  laughed.  Later  I  took  her  up  to  our  showrooms 
on  the  top  floor. 

"Good  heavens,  do  you  sell  people  things,  Ruth?" 
she  demanded. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  I  assured  her. 

"Just  the  same  as  over  a  counter  almost?" 

"Yes — not  much  difference." 

"But  don't  you  feel — oh,  dear — that  seems  so  queer 
— what  is  your  social  position?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    I've  cut  loose  from  all  that." 

"I  know,  but  still  you've  got  to  think  about  the 
future.  For  instance,  how  would  we  feel  if  Malcolm 
wrote  he  was  going  to  marry  a  clerk — or  somebody 
like  that — or  a  manicurist?" 

"If  she  had  education  to  match  his — I  should  think 
it  was  very  nice." 

"Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't.  That's  talk.  Most  people 
wouldn't  anyhow.  You  are  awfully  queer,  Ruth.  You 
aren't  a  bit  like  anybody  I  know.  Don't  you  some- 
times feel  hungry  for  relations  with  people  of  your 
own  class?  Friendly  relations,  I  mean?  Something 
different  from  the  relations  of  a  clerk  to  a  customer? 
I  would.  You  are  just  queer."  Then  suddenly  she 
exclaimed,  "Who's  that?" 

Virginia  had  passed  through  the  room. 

"Oh,  that's  Virginia.    That's  Miss  Van  de  Vere." 

"My  dear,"  said  Edith,  impressed,  "she  was  a  guest 
at  Mrs.  Sewall's  once,  when  you  were  out  West.  She's 
so  striking!  I  saw  her  at  the  station  when  she  ar- 
rived— Van  de  Vere — yes,  that  was  the  name.  It  was 


254  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

in  the  paper.  They  spoke  of  her  as  a  talented  artist. 
Everybody  was  just  crazy  about  her  in  Hilton.  She 
was  at  Mrs.  Sewall's  two  weeks.  She  was  reported 
engaged  to  a  duke  Mrs.  Sewall  had  hanging  around. 
I  remember  distinctly.  What  is  she  doing  around 
here?" 

"Why,  she  and  I  run  this  establishment,"  I  an- 
nounced. 

"Good  heavens!    Does  she  sell  people  things?" 

"Why,  of  course,  Edith,  why  not  ?" 

"Well — of  all  things!  I  don't  know  what  we're 
coming  to.  I  should  think  England  would  call  us  bar- 
barians. Why,  in  England,  even  a  man  who  is  in 
trade  has  a  hard  time  getting  into  society.  But  do 
introduce  me  to  her  if  there's  a  chance  before  I  go." 

Later  Edith  exclaimed,  "By  the  way,  my  dear,  you'll 
be  interested  to  know  I've  turned  suffrage." 

"How  did  that  happen  ?" 

"Of  course  I  wouldn't  march  or  anything  like  that, 
and  I  think  militancy  is  simply  awful,  but  you'd  be 
surprised  how  popular  suffrage  is  getting  at  home.  I 
gave  a  bridge  in  interest  of  it.  Lots  of  prominent  peo- 
ple are  taking  it  up.  Look  here,"  she  broke  off 
abruptly,  "when  can  you  come  up  for  a  Sunday?  I'm 
just  crazy  to  get  hold  of  you  and  have  a  good  old  talk." 

"Oh,  almost  any  time.  I'm  anxious  to  see  nice  old 
Hilton  again." 

"Well,  we  must  plan  it.  How  would  you  like  to 
bring  that  Miss  Van  de  Vere?  In  the  spring  when 
the  summer  people  get  here.  She  has  quite  a  number 


VAN  DE  VERE'S  255 

of  admirers  among  them.  I'd  just  love  to  give  you  a 
little  tea  or  something." 

Same  old  Edith!  A  wave  of  tenderness  swept  over 
me  for  her — faults  and  all.  "Of  course  we'll  come," 
I  laughed.  "I'll  arrange  it." 

I  knew  in  a  flash  that  I  should  never  quarrel  with 
my  sister-in-law  again.  She  was  no  more  to  blame 
than  a  child  with  a  taste  for  sweets.  Why  feel  bitter- 
ness and  rancor?  She  was  only  a  victim  of  her  en- 
vironment after  all.  My  tenderness — was  a  revelation. 
I  hadn't  realized  that  tolerance  had  been  part  of  my 
soul's  growth — tolerance  even  toward  the  principles 
from  which  I  had  once  fled  in  righteous  indignation. 

Tom  dropped  in  at  Van  de  Vere's  some  time  in  the 
spring. 

"Look's  like  a  woman's  business,"  he  almost 
sneered,  critically  surveying  the  striped  walls  of  the 
reception-room ;  and  later,  "Impractical  and  affected,  I 
call  it,"  he  said.  "If  I  was  building  a  house  I'd  steer 
clear  of  any  such  place  as  this." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  I  replied  pleasantly.  "Come  with 
me,"  and  I  took  Tom  into  the  well-lighted  rooms  at 
the  rear,  where  our  workers  were  engaged,  at  the  time, 
on  a  rush  order.  "Does  that  look  affected,  Tom?"  I 
asked.  "Every  one  of  those  girls  is  living  a  decent 
and  self-respecting  life,  many  of  them  are  helping  in 
their  family  finances;  and  besides,  the  few  stock- 
holders of  Van  de  Vere's  are  going  to  get  a  ten  per 
cent,  dividend  on  their  holdings  next  year.  Does  that 
strike  you  as  impractical  and  affected,  too?" 


256  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

Tom  looked  at  me,  shut  his  mouth  very  tight,  and 
shook  his  head.  "I  suppose  all  this  takes  the  place  of 
babies  in  your  life.  It  wouldn't  satisfy  some  women 
ten  minutes.  Elise  wouldn't  give  up  one  of  her  babies 
for  a  business  paying  thirty  per  cent." 

"But  Tom,"  I  replied  calmly.  "We  all  can't  marry. 
Some  of  us " 

"You  could  have.  This  is  not  natural.  'Tisn't 
according  to  nature.  No,  sir.  Abnormal.  Down  here 
in  New  York  living  like  a  man.  What  do  you  want  to 
copy  men  for?  Why  don't  you  devote  yourself  to 
becoming  an  ideal  woman,  Ruth  ?  That's  what  I  want 
to  know.  I  don't  approve  of  this  sort  of  thing  at  all." 

I  felt  no  anger.  I  felt  no  impulse  to  strike  back.  I 
had  reached  such  an  elevation  on  my  mountain  of  Self- 
discovery,  as  Esther  would  have  put  it,  that  I  com- 
manded vision  at  last.  Tom  and  his  ideas  did  not 
obstruct  my  progress,  like  the  huge  blow-down  that  he 
had  once  been  in  my  way,  against  which  I  had  blindly 
beaten  my  fists  raw.  I  had  found  my  way  around 
Tom.  I  could  look  down  now  and  see  him  in  correct 
proportion  to  other  objects  in  the  world  about  me.  I 
saw  from  my  height  that  such  obstructions  as  Tom 
could  be  circumvented — a  path  worn  around  him,  as 
more  and  more  girls  pursued  the  way  I  had  chosen.  I 
looked  down  and  perceived,  already,  girls  trooping 
after  me.  There  was  no  use  hacking  away  at  Tom 
any  more.  Nature  herself  removes  blow-downs  on 
mountain-trails  in  time,  by  a  process  of  slow  rot  and 
disintegration.  When  time  accomplishes  the  same 


VAN  DE  VERE'S  257 

with  the  Toms  of  the  world  then  we  shan't  need  even 
to  walk  around.    We  can  walk  over! 

So,  "I  know  you  don't  approve,  Tom,"  I  replied 
almost  gently,  "and  there's  truth  in  what  you  say — 
that  women  are  made  to  run  homes  and  families,  in- 
stead of  businesses,  most  of  them.  Of  course  Elise 
wouldn't  give  up  one  of  her  babies !  She's  one  of  the 
'most-of-them.'  How  are  the  babies  anyway?" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A    CALL    FROM    BOB    JENNINGS 

ONE  day,  however,  I  realized  that  I  hadn't  walked 
around  Tom.  I  really  hadn't  circumvented,  by 
persistence  and  determination,  the  obstacles  that  lay  in 
the  way  to  triumph.  Some  one,  like  a  fairy  god- 
mother from  Grimm's,  had  waved  a  wand  and 
wished  the  obstacles  away.  Virginia  told  me  about  it. 
I  learned  that  except  for  Mrs.  Sewall  I  might  still 
be  delivering  bandboxes.  The  searchlight  following 
me  about  wherever  I  went  for  the  last  six  months, 
making  my  way  bright  and  easy,  came  not  from 
heaven.  It  came  instead  from  a  lady  in  black  who 
chose  to  conceal  her  good  offices  beneath  an  unforgiv- 
ing manner,  as  she  hid  the  five  hundred  dollars  inside 
a  trivial  bag. 

Mrs.  Sewall  called  one  day  at  the  shop.  She  asked 
for  Miss  Van  de  Vere.  She  was  contemplating  re- 
decorating a  bed-chamber,  it  seemed.  Virginia  came 
to  me  in  the  workshop,  and  told  me  about  it. 

"Your  old  lady  is  out  there,"  she  said.  "You'd 
better  take  her  order." 

"My  old  lady?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Sewall,  who  landed  you  in  our  midst, 
my  dear." 

258 


A  CALL  FROM  BOB  JENNINGS      259 

I  stared  at  Virginia. 

"Certainly,  and  pays  a  portion  of  your  ridiculous 
salary,  baby-mine."  She  went  on  pinching  my  cheek 
playfully.  She  delights  in  patronizing  me.  "You're 
an  expensive  asset,  my  dear — not  but  what  I  am  glad. 
I  always  urged  somebody  of  your  sort  to  relieve  me. 
Mrs.  Scot-Williams  never  saw  it  that  way,  however, 
until  the  old  lady  Sewall  came  along  and  crammed 
you  down  our  throats.  I  wasn't  to  tell  you,  but  I  see 
no  harm  in  it.  Go  on  in,  and  whatever  the  tiff's  about 
make  it  up  with  the  old  veteran.  She's  not  a  bad  sort." 

I  went  upstairs.  My  heart  was  bursting  with 
gratitude.  I  had  vexed,  displeased,  cruelly  hurt  my 
benefactress — she  had  likened  me  to  a  steel  knife — 
and  yet  she  had  bestowed  upon  me  my  greatest  desire. 
Much  in  the  same  way  as  I  had  rescued  the  little  bug, 
buffeted  by  winds,  Mrs.  Sewall  had  picked  me  up  and 
placed  me  at  the  zenith  of  my  hopes.  But  for  her,  no 
Mrs.  Scot-Williams,  no  Van  de  Vere's,  no  trade  of 
my  own,  no  precious  business  to  work  for,  and  make 
succeed ! 

"Mrs.  Sewall,"  I  began  eagerly  (I  found  her  alone 

in  the  living-room),  "Mrs.  Sewall "  and  then  I 

stopped.  There  was  no  encouragement  in  her  expres- 
sion. 

"Ah,  Miss  Vars,"  she  remarked  frostily. 

"Mrs.     Sewall — please,"     I    begged,     "please    let 
» 

"My  time  is  limited  this  morning,"  she  cut  in. 
"Doubtless  Miss  Van  de  Vere  has  sent  you  to  me  to 


260  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

attend  to  my  order.  If  so,  let  us  hasten  with  it.  I 
am  hunting  for  a  cretonne  with  a  peacock  design  for 
a  bed-chamber.  I  should  like  to  see  what  you  have." 

"But  Mrs.  Sewall " 

"My  time  is  limited,"  she  repeated. 

"I  know,  but  I  simply  must  speak." 

She  raised  her  hand.  "I  hope,"  she  said,  "that  you 
are  not  going  to  make  me  ill  again,  Miss  Vars." 

I  surrendered  at  that.  "No,  no,"  I  assured  her. 
"No,  I'm  not.  I'm  thoughtless.  I  think  only  of  my- 
self. I'll  go  and  call  Miss  Van  de  Vere." 

"That  will  not  be  necessary,"  said  Mrs.  Sewall. 
"You  may  show  me  the  cretonne,  now  that  you  are 
here." 

For  half  an  hour  we  hunted  for  peacocks.  I  had 
the  samples  brought  down  to  the  living-room,  piled 
on  a  chair  near-by,  and  then  dismissed  the  attendant. 
Mrs.  Sewall  appeared  only  slightly  interested.  In  fact, 
I  think  we  both  were  observing  each  other  more  closely 
than  the  cretonnes.  They  acted  simply  as  a  screen, 
through  the  cracks  of  which  we  might  surreptitiously 
gaze. 

I  noted  all  the  familiar  points — the  superb  string 
of  pearls  about  Mrs.  Sewall's  neck ;  the  wealth  of  dia- 
monds on  her  slender  ringers  when  she  drew  off  her 
glove;  the  band  of  black  on  the  lower  edge  of  the  veil, 
setting  off  her  small  features  in  a  heavy  frame.  I 
noted,  too,  the  increased  pallor  beneath  the  veil.  There 
was  a  sort  of  emaciated  appearance  just  behind  the 
ears,  which  neither  carefully-set  earring  nor  cleverly 


A  CALL  FROM  BOB  JENNINGS      261 

arranged  coiffure  could  conceal.  The  veins  on  Mrs. 
Sewall's  hands,  moreover,  were  prominent  and  blue. 

But  for  a  tangle  in  the  chain  of  Mrs.  Sewall's 
glasses  she  would  have  left  me  with  no  sign  of  friend- 
liness. It  was  when  I  passed  her  a  small  sample  in  a 
book,  and  she  attempted  to  put  on  her  glasses,  that  I 
observed  the  fine  platinum  cord  was  in  a  knot.  I  of- 
fered my  services.  I  didn't  suppose  she  would  accept 
them.  I  was  surprised  at  her  cool,  "Yes,  if  you  will." 

Mrs.  Sewall  was  sitting  down.  I  had  to  kneel  to 
my  task.  The  chain  proved  to  be  in  a  complicated 
snarl.  My  fingers  trembled.  I  was  very  clumsy.  I 
was  afraid  Mrs.  Sewall  would  become  exasperated. 
"Just  a  moment,"  I  said,  and  looked  up.  Our  eyes 
met.  I  was  so  close  I  could  see  the  tiny  network  of 
wrinkles  in  the  face  above  me.  I  could  see  the  sudden 
tenderness  in  the  eyes. 

"It  seems  to  be  a  particularly  difficult  snarl,"  I  qua- 
vered, then  bent  my  head  and  worked  in  silence  for  a 
moment.  We  were  so  near,  we  could  hear  each  other 
breathe. 

Suddenly  in  a  low  voice,  almost  a  whisper,  Mrs. 
Sewall  asked,  "Are  you  happy  here?" 

"Oh,  so  happy,"  I  replied. 

"Are  you  better?    Are  you  well?"  she  pursued. 

I  dropped  my  hands  in  her  lap,  looked  up,  and 
nodded.  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  speak.  I  knelt 
there  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

Finally  I  said,  "Are  you  happy?  Are  you  better? 
Are  you  well,  dear  Mrs.  Sewall?" 


262  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"What  does  it  matter?  I  am  an  old  woman,"  she 
replied,  in  that  disparaging  little  way  of  hers. 

Our  old  intimacy  shone  clear  and  bright  in  that 
stolen  moment.  We  were  like  two  lovers  forbidden  to 
each  other,  whispering  there  together,  when  the  lights 
suddenly  go  out,  and  they  are  enfolded  in  the  protect- 
ing dark.  "You  are  not  too  old  to  have  created  great 
happiness !"  I  exclaimed  softly. 

She  shrugged  and  smiled. 

It  was  a  rare  moment.  I  did  not  mean  to  spoil  it. 
I  ought  to  have  been  content.  My  eagerness  was  at 
fault. 

"Oh !"  I  burst  out  crudely,  "if  you  knew  how  sorry 
I  am  to  have  done  anything  to  you,  of  all  people,  that 

displeased.  If "  She  recoiled;  she  drew  back. 

I  had  ventured  where  angels  feared  to  tread.  The 
chain  was  not  yet  untangled,  but  she  would  not  let 
me  kneel  there  any  longer.  She  rose;  I  too. 

"My  time  is  limited,  as  I  said,"  she  reminded  me; 
"I  am  here  on  business.  Let  us  endeavor  to  complete 
it,  Miss  Vars." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  blushing  scarlet,  "let  us,  by  all  means. 
I'm  sorry,  excuse  me,  I'll  go  upstairs  and  see  what 
else  we  have." 

When  Bob  finally  called  at  Van  de  Vere's  I  hadn't 
seen  him  for  over  a  year.  While  I  had  been  working 
so  hard  to  establish  myself  in  my  new  venture,  Bob 
had  been  starting  a  brand-new  law  firm  of  his  own, 
in  a  little  town  I  had  never  heard  of  in  the  Middle 


A  CALL  FROM  BOB  JENNINGS      263 

West.  He  had  severed  all  connections  with  the  Uni- 
versity when  his  mother  had  died.  I  knew  as  well  as 
if  he  had  told  me  that  when  he  broke  loose  from  any 
sort  of  steady  salary  he  had  abandoned  all  hope  of 
persuading  me  to  come  and  grow  in  his  green-house, 
as  he  had  once  put  it.  It  had  been  our  original  plan 
that  Bob  would  work  gradually  into  a  law  firm  in 
Boston,  at  the  same  time  retaining  some  small  salaried 
position  at  the  University  enabling  us  to  be  married 
before  he  became  established  as  a  lawyer.  Bob  had 
been  able  to  lay  little  by.  His  mother  had  required 
specialists  and  trained  nurses.  When  I  first  realized 
that  Bob  had  gone  West  and  set  about  planning  his 
life  without  reference  to  me  I  felt  peculiarly  free  and 
unhampered.  When  he  as  much  as  told  me  that  it 
was  easier  for  him  not  to  hear  from  me  at  all,  than  in 
the  impersonal  way  I  insisted  upon,  I  was  glad.  I 
cared  for  Bob  too  much  not  to  feel  a  little  pang  in  my 
breast  every  time  I  saw  my  name  and  address  written 
by  his  hand.  And  I  wanted  nothing  to  swerve  me 
away  from  the  goal  I  had  my  eyes  set  on — the  goal 
of  an  acknowledged  success  as  an  independent,  self- 
supporting  human  being. 

When  Bob  first  dropped  in  at  Van  de  Vere's  I  hardly 
recognized  him  as  the  romantic  figure  who  had  wan- 
dered over  brown  hillsides  with  me,  a  volume  of  poetry 
stuffed  into  his  overcoat  pocket.  No  one  would  have 
guessed  from  this  man's  enthusiastic  interest  in  the 
progressive  spirit  of  the  West  that  he  had  been  born 
on  Beacon  Hill  behind  violet-shaded  panes  of  glass. 


264  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

No  one  would  have  guessed,  when  he  talked  about 
cleaning  out  a  disreputable  school-board  by  means  of 
the  women's  vote,  that  he  had  once  opposed  parades 
for  equal  suffrage  in  Massachusetts.  When  Bob  shook 
hands  with  me,  firmly,  shortly,  as  if  scarcely  seeing 
me  at  all,  I  wondered  if  it  might  have  slipped  his  mind 
that  I  was  the  girl  he  had  once  been  engaged  to  marry. 

He  explained  that  he  was  in  town  on  business,  leav- 
ing the  same  evening.  He  could  give  me  only  an 
hour.  There  was  a  man  he  had  to  meet  at  his  hotel 
at  five.  Bob  was  all  nerves  and  energy  that  day.  He 
talked  about  himself  a  good  deal.  They  wanted  to 
get  him  into  politics  out  there  in  that  wonderful  little 
city  of  his.  He'd  been  there  only  fourteen  months,  but 
it  was  a  great  place,  full  of  promise — politics  in  a 
rather  rotten  condition — needed  cleaning  and  fumi- 
gating. He'd  a  good  mind  to  get  into  the  job  him- 
self— in  fact,  he  might  as  well  confess  he  was  in  it  to 
some  extent.  He  was  meeting  the  governor  in  Chi- 
cago the  next  night,  or  else  he'd  stay  over  and  ask  me 
to  go  to  the  theater  with  him. 

I  don't  suppose  Bob  would  have  referred  to  the  old 
days  if  I  hadn't.  It  was  I,  who,  when  at  last  a  lull 
occurred,  said  something  about  that  time  when  he  had 
found  me  struggling  in  a  mire  that  threatened  to 
drown,  and  I  had  grasped  his  good,  strong  arm. 

"Wasn't  it  better,  Bob,"  I  asked,  "that  I  should 
learn  to  swim  myself,  and  keep  my  head  above  water 
by  my  own  efforts?" 


A  CALL  FROM  BOB  JENNINGS     265 

"It  certainly  seems  to  be  what  women  are  deter- 
mined to  do,"  he  dodged. 

"Well,  isn't  it  better  ?"  I  insisted. 

"I'll  say  this,  Ruth,"  he  generously  conceded.  "I 
think  there  would  be  less  men  dragged  down  if  all 
women  learned  a  few  strokes  in  self-support." 

"Oh,  Bob!"  I  exclaimed.  "Do  you  really  think 
that?  So  do  I.  Why,  so  do  If  We  agree!  Women 
would  not  lose  their  heads  so  quickly  in  times  of  catas- 
trophe, would  they  ?  You  see  it,  too !  Women  would 
help  carry  some  of  the  burden.  All  they'd  need  would 
be  one  hand  on  a  man's  shoulder,  while  they  swam 
with  the  other  and  made  progress." 

He  laughed  a  little  sadly.  "Ruth,"  he  said,  for  the 
first  time  becoming  the  Bob  I  had  known,  "I  fear  you 
would  not  need  even  one  hand  on  a  shoulder.  It  looks 
to  me,"  he  added,  as  he  gazed  about  the  luxuriously 
furnished  living-room  of  Van  de  Vere's,  "that  you  can 
reach  the  shore  quite  well  alone." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

LONGINGS 

THE  days  at  Van  de  Vere's  grew  gradually  into  a 
year,  into  two  years,  into  nearly  three.  From 
assistant  to  Virginia  Van  de  Vere  I  became  consultant, 
from  consultant,  partner  finally.  Van  de  Vere's  grew, 
expanded,  spread  to  the  house  next  door.  To  the  two 
V's  upon  the  door-plate  was  added  at  last  a  third. 
Van  de  Vere's  became  Van  de  Vere  and  Vars. 

My  life,  like  that  of  a  child's,  assumed  habits,  per- 
sonality, settled  down  to  characteristics  of  its  own.  I 
remained  with  Esther  in  Irving  Place,  in  spite  of  Vir- 
ginia's urgent  invitation  to  share  her  apartment,  add- 
ing to  the  room  an  old  Italian  chest,  a  few  large  pieces 
of  copper  and  brass,  and  a  strip  or  two  of  antique 
embroidery.  I  preferred  Irving  Place.  It  was  simple, 
quiet,  and  detached. 

I  came  and  went  as  I  pleased;  ate  where  I  wanted 
to  and  when ;  wandered  here  and  there  at  will.  Even- 
ings I  sometimes  went  with  Esther,  when  she  could 
leave  the  book,  or  with  Rosa,  or  with  Alsace  and  Lor- 
raine, to  various  favorite  haunts ;  sometimes  with  Vir- 
ginia to  the  luxurious  studios  of  artists  who  had  ar- 
rived; sometimes  with  Mrs.  Scot-Williams  to  suffrage 

266 


LONGINGS  267 

meetings,  where  occasionally  I  spoke;  sometimes  to 
dinner  and  opera  with  stereotyped  Malcolm;  some- 
times simply  to  bed  with  a  generous  book.  A  beauti- 
ful, unhampered  sort  of  existence  it  was — perfect,  I 
would  have  called  it  once. 

My  relations  with  the  family  simmered  down  to  a 
friendly  basis.  They  accepted  my  independence  as  a 
matter  of  course.  It  had  been  undesired  by  them,  true 
enough,  its  birth  painful,  but  like  many  an  unwanted 
child,  once  born,  once  safely  here,  they  became  accus- 
tomed to  it,  fond,  even  proud,  as  it  matured.  I  spent 
every  Christmas  with  Edith  in  Hilton,  going  up  with 
Malcolm  on  the  same  train,  and  returning  with  him 
in  time  for  a  following  business  day.  I  often  ran  up 
for  a  week-end  with  Lucy  and  Will.  Once  I  spent  a 
fortnight  with  Tom  and  Elise  in  Wisconsin.  The 
family  seldom  came  to  New  York  without  telephoning 
to  me,  and  often  we  dined  together  and  went  to  the 
theater.  I  ought  to  have  been  very  happy.  I  had  won 
all  I  had  left  home  for.  I  worked;  I  produced.  At 
Van  de  Vere's  my  creative  genius  had  found  a  soil  in 
which  to  grow.  I,  as  well  as  Virginia,  conceived 
dream  rooms,  sketched  them  in  water-colors,  created 
them  in  wood,  and  paint,  and  drapery.  I  had  escaped 
the  stultifying  effects  of  parasitism,  rescued  body  and 
brain  from  sluggishness  and  inactivity,  successfully 
shaken  off  the  shackles  of  society.  Freedom  of  act 
and  speech  was  mine;  independence,  self-expression — 
yes,  all  that,  but  where — where  was  the  promised  joy? 

When  I  look  back  and  observe  my  life,  I  see  the 


268  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

sharp,  difficult  ascent  that  led  to  my  career  at  Van 
de  Vere's  with  clearness.  As  if  it  was  a  picture  taken 
on  a  sunny  day  I  observe  the  details  of  the  first  joyous 
days  of  realized  ambition.  Just  when  my  happiness 
began  to  blur  I  do  not  know.  Less  distinct  are  the 
events  that  led  to  my  discontent.  Gradual  was  the 
tarnishing  of  the  metal  I  thought  was  gold  within  the 
pot.  I  closed  my  eyes  to  the  process,  at  first  refused 
to  recognize  it.  I  wouldn't  admit  the  possibility  of 
lacks  and  deficiencies  in  my  life.  When  they  became 
too  obvious  to  ignore,  I  searched  for  excuses.  I  was 
tired;  I  had  overworked;  I  needed  a  change.  Never 
was  it  because  I  was  a  woman,  and  just  plain  hungry 
for  a  home.  The  slow  disillusion  that  crept  upon  me 
expressed  itself  at  odd  and  unexpected  moments.  In 
the  middle  of  a  fine  discussion  with  the  girls  of  the 
old  circle,  the  "mountain-climbers,"  as  Esther  some- 
times called  us,  the  ineffectualness  of  our  lives  would 
sweep  over  me.  To  my  chagrin,  immediately  after  an 
inspired  argument  on  suffrage  a  kind  of  reactionary 
longing  to  be  petted,  and  loved,  and  indulged  occa- 
sionally would  possess  me.  Sometimes  coming  home 
to  the  room  in  Irving  Place,  after  a  long  day  at  the 
shop,  I  would  be  more  impressed  by  the  loneliness  of 
my  life  than  the  freedom. 

I  hid  these  indications  of  what  I  considered  weak- 
ness, buried  them  deep  in  my  heart,  at  first,  and  cov- 
ered them  over  with  a  bright  green  patch  of  exag- 
gerated zest  and  enthusiasm.  One  never  realizes  how 
many  people  are  suffering  with  a  certain  disease  until 


LONGINGS  269 

he  himself  is  afflicted.  I  didn't  know,  until  my  little 
patch  of  green  covered  a  longing,  how  many  other 
longings  were  similarly  concealed.  As  I  became  more 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  members  of  our  little 
circle  I  discovered  that  there  was  frequently  expressed 
a  desire  for  human  ties.  I  recalled  Esther's  confes- 
sion at  the  hospital.  Her  words  came  back  to  me 
with  startling  significance.  "A  stark  and  empty  life," 
she  had  said,  "no  man,  no  child,  no  one  to  make  sacri- 
fices for — just  my  thoughts,  my  hopes  and  my  ambi- 
tions— that's  all."  Virginia,  too — successful  and 
brilliant  Virginia  Van  de  Vere!  For  what  other 
reason  had  Virginia  adopted  the  curly-headed  Greek 
boy  except  to  cover  a  lack  in  her  life?  For  what 
reason  than  for  a  desire  for  some  one  to  love  and  to 
be  loved  by  were  Alsace  and  Lorraine  so  devoted  to 
each  other?  I  read  that  a  philanthropist  of  world 
renown,  a  woman  whose  splendid  service  had  been 
praised  the  country  over,  was  quoted  as  saying  she 
would  give  up  her  public  life  a  second  time  and  choose 
the  seclusion  and  the  joy  of  a  home  of  her  own.  At 
first  I  stoutly  said  to  myself,  "Well,  anyhow,  /  shall 
not  run  to  cover.  I  needed  no  one  two  years  ago. 
Why  should  I  now?"  Why,  indeed?  A  nest  of  gray 
hairs,  discovered  not  long  after,  answered  me.  They 
set  me  to  thinking  in  earnest.  Gray  hairs !  Growing 
old !  Creative  years  slipping  by !  Good  heavens — was 
there  danger  that  my  life  would  become  stark  and 
empty  too?  I  had  chosen  the  mountain  trail.  Had  I 
lost  then  the  joy  and  the  comfort  of  the  nestling  house 


270  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

and  curling  smoke?  There  were  still  interesting  con- 
tracts of  course,  engrossing  work.  There  was  still 
the  success  of  Van  de  Vere's  to  live  for,  but  the 
ecstasy  had  all  faded  by  the  time  I  first  realized  that 
I  was  no  longer  a  young  girl. 

Mrs.  Sewall  never  came  again  to  the  shop  after 
that  single  call.  I  was  told  she  was  in  Europe.  I  never 
heard  from  her.  Her  son — poor  Breck — had  died  at 
sea  when  a  huge  and  luxurious  ocean  liner  had  trag- 
ically plunged  into  fathoms  of  water.  I  learned  that 
an  English  girl  had  become  Mrs.  Sewall's  companion. 
They  were  occupying  the  house  in  England.  No  doubt 
they  were  very  happy  together.  Sometimes  it  would 
sweep  over  me  with  distressing  reality  that  nobody 
really  needed  me — Breck,  or  Mrs.  Sewall,  or  self-suffi- 
cient Bob  in  his  beloved  West.  Bob  was  fast  becom- 
ing nothing  but  a  memory  to  me.  If  I  thought  of 
him  at  all  it  was  as  if  my  mind  gazed  at  him  through 
the  wrong  end  of  a  pair  of  opera  glasses.  He  seemed 
miles  away.  He  must  have  come  to  New  York  occa- 
sionally but  he  didn't  look  me  up.  I  heard  of  his 
activities  indirectly  through  Lucy  and  Will.  With  the 
help  of  the  women  voters  he  had  succeeded  in  cleaning 
out  a  board  of  aldermen,  and  now  the  women  wanted 
him  to  run  for  mayor.  This  all  interested  me,  but  it 
didn't  make  me  long  for  Bob.  I  wasn't  conscious  of 
wanting  anything  specific.  My  discontent  was  simply 
a  vague,  empty  feeling,  a  good  deal  like  being  hungry, 
when  no  food  you  can  call  to  mind  seems  to  be  what 
you  want. 


LONGINGS  271 

Mrs.  Scot-Williams  of  her  own  accord  suggested  a 
vacation  of  two  months  for  me.  I  know  she  must 
have  observed  that  my  spirits  had  fallen  below  normal. 
Mrs.  Scot- Williams  said  she  was  afraid  I  had  been 
working  too  steadily,  and  needed  a  change.  I  was 
looking  a  little  tired.  She  invited  me  to  go  to  Japan 
with  her,  starting  in  mid- July.  We'd  pick  up  some 
antiques  for  the  shop  in  the  East.  It  would  do  me  a 
world  of  good.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Scot-Williams  was 
right.  Such  a  complete  change  might  help  me  to 
regain  my  old  poise.  I  told  her  I  would  go  with 
pleasure. 

However,  before  I  ever  got  started  my  loneliness 
culminated  one  dismal  night,  two  days  before  the 
Fourth  of  July.  I  had  been  away  for  two  weeks  with 
Mrs.  Scot- Williams  on  a  suffrage  campaign,  combin- 
ing a  little  business  en  route.  Mrs.  Scot-Williams  had 
had  to  return  in  time  to  celebrate  the  holiday  with  her 
college-boy  son  and  some  friends  of  his  at  her  summer 
place  on  Long  Island. 

I  arrived  at  the  Grand  Central  alone,  hot  and  tired. 
It  was  an  exceedingly  warm  night.  I  felt  forlorn, 
returning  to  New  York  for  an  uncelebrated  holiday. 
I  took  the  subway  down  town.  The  air  was  stifling. 
It  always  manages  to  rob  me  of  good-cheer.  When  I 
reached  the  room  in  Irving  Place  I  found  Esther 
writing  as  usual.  Esther  had  grown  pale  and  anemic 
of  late.  Her  book  had  met  with  success,  and  it  seemed 
to  make  her  a  little  more  impersonal  and  remote  than 
ever.  I  had  been  away  two  weeks,  but  Esther  didn't 


272  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

even  get  up  as  I  came  in.  That  was  all  right.  We're 
never  demonstrative. 

"Hello,"  she  said,  "you  back?"  She  dipped  her  pen 
into  the  ink-well. 

"I'm  back,"  I  replied,  and  went  over  and  raised  the 
shade.  A  girl  all  in  white  and  a  young  man  carrying 
her  coat  went  by,  laughing  intimately.  Oh,  well! 
What  of  it  ?  I  shrugged.  I  had  my  career,  my  affairs, 
Van  de  Vere's.  "Want  to  come  out  somewhere  inter- 
esting for  dinner?"  I  suggested  to  Esther. 

"Sorry,"  she  said.    "Can't  possibly.    Got  to  work." 

I  stared  at  Esther's  back  a  moment  in  silence.  Her 
restricted  affection  was  inadequate  tonight.  I  glanced 
around  the  room.  It  was  unbeautiful  in  July.  Where 
was  the  lure  of  it?  Where  had  disappeared  the  charm 
of  my  life  anyhow?  Why  should  I  be  standing  here, 
fighting  a  desire  to  cry?  I  could  go  out  and  find  some 
one  to  dine  with  me.  Of  course — of  course  I  could. 
I  went  to  the  telephone.  Should  it  be  Virginia,  Rosa, 
Alsace  and  Lorraine,  Flora  Bennett  ?  None — none  of 
them !  My  heart  cried  out  for  somebody  of  my  own 
tonight,  upon  whom  I  had  a  claim  of  some  kind  or 
other.  I  called  Malcolm,  my  own  older  brother.  We 
had  grown  a  little  formal  of  late.  That  was  true. 
Never  mind.  I'd  break  through  the  reserve  somehow. 
I'd  draw  near  him.  There  was  the  bond  of  our  par- 
ents. I  wanted  bonds  tonight. 

I  got  Malcolm's  number  at  last.  I  was  informed  by 
a  house-mate  of  his  that  my  brother  had  gone  to  a 
reunion  with  his  people  for  over  the  Fourth  of  July. 


LONGINGS  273 

His  people !  What  a  sound  it  had  for  my  hungry  soul. 
His  people !  My  people,  too,  bound  in  loyalty  by  iden- 
tical traditions.  I,  too,  would  go  to  them  for  a  day 
or  two.  There  would  probably  be  a  letter  for  me. 

I  went  to  my  desk  and  glanced  through  my  waiting 
mail.  There  was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  I 
looked  through  the  pile  twice.  A  family  reunion  and 
they  had  not  notified  me!  I  had  become  as  detached 
as  all  that!  I  glanced  at  Esther  again.  She  was 
scratching  away  like  mad.  I  heard  the  drone  of  a 
hurdy-gurdy  outside.  I  would  not  stay  here.  The 
thought  of  a  holiday  in  Irving  Place  became  suddenly 
unendurable.  I  must  escape  it  somehow.  There  was 
a  train  north  an  hour  later.  My  suitcase  was  still 
packed. 

"Esther,"  I  said  quietly,  "I  believe  I'll  go  up  to 
Hilton  for  the  holiday.  I  don't  seem  to  be  especially 
needed  here." 

"Mind  not  interrupting?"  said  Esther,  scratching 
away  hard.  "I'm  right  in  the  midst  of  an  idea." 

I  picked  up  my  suitcase,  and  stole  out. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

AGAIN   LUCY    NARRATES 

NO  one  was  more  surprised  than  I  on  the  morning 
of  the  Fourth  of  July,  when  Ruth  unexpectedly 
arrived  from  New  York. 

We  Vars  were  all  at  Edith's  in  Hilton,  even  to  Tom 
and  Elise,  who  had  taken  a  cottage  on  the  Cape  for 
the  summer  and  were  able  to  run  up  and  join  us  all 
for  the  holiday.  Will  and  I  had  motored  up  from 
our  university  town,  and  even  Malcolm  had  put  in  an 
appearance.  I  had  advised  Edith  not  to  bother  to 
write  Ruth  about  the  impromptu  reunion.  I  had  un- 
derstood that  she  was  traveling  around  somewhere 
with  her  prominent  suffrage  leader,  Mrs.  Scot-Wil- 
liams. Ruth  is  a  woman  of  affairs  now,  and  I  try  not 
to  disturb  her  with  family  trivialities.  The  reunion 
was  not  to  be  a  joyful  occasion  anyhow.  A  cloud 
hovered  over  it.  We're  a  loyal  family,  and  if  one  of 
us  is  in  trouble,  the  others  all  try  to  help  out.  Oliver 
was  the  one  to  be  helped  just  at  present.  The  Fourth 
of  July  holiday  offered  an  excellent  opportunity  for 
us  all  to  meet  and  talk  over  his  problem. 

Oliver  has  always  been  financially  unfortunate.  In 
fact,  life  has  dealt  out  everything  in  the  line  of  bless- 

274 


AGAIN  LUCY  NARRATES  275 

ings  stingily  to  Oliver,  except,  possibly,  babies.  To 
Oliver  and  Madge  had  been  born  four  children.  With 
the  last  one  there  had  settled  upon  Madge  a  persistent 
little  cough.  We  didn't  consider  it  anything  serious. 
She  didn't  herself,  and  when  Oliver  dropped  in  one 
night  at  Will's  and  my  house,  just  a  week  before  the 
Fourth  of  July,  and  said  something  about  spots  on  her 
lungs,  and  Colorado  immediately,  it  was  a  shock.  The 
doctor  wanted  Madge  to  start  within  a  week.  He  was 
going  out  to  Colorado  with  another  patient  and  could 
take  her  along  with  him  at  the  same  time.  He  would 
allow  only  Marjorie,  the  oldest  little  girl,  to  accompany 
her  mother.  The  others  must  positively  be  left  be- 
hind. He  couldn't  predict  anything.  The  lungs  were 
in  a  serious  condition.  However,  if  the  climate  proved 
beneficial,  Madge  would  have  to  stay  in  Colorado  at 
least  six  months. 

Now  Oliver  and  Madge  live  very  economically. 
They  can't  afford  governesses  and  trained  nurses. 
Madge,  poor  girl,  had  to  go  away  not  knowing  what 
arrangement  was  to  be  made  for  the  care  of  the  two 
little  girls  and  infant  son,  the  first  Vars  heir,  by  the 
way,  whom  she  left  behind.  Oliver  went  as  far  as 
Hilton  with  her  and  got  off  there  with  his  motherless 
brood,  joining  us  at  Edith's,  while  Madge  and  Mar- 
jorie were  whisked  away  out  West  with  the  doctor 
and  the  other  patient. 

I  felt  sorry  for  Oliver.  He  was  anxious  and  wor- 
ried, seemed  helpless  and  inadequate.  The  children 
hung  on  him  and  asked  endless  questions.  He  was 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

tired,  poor  boy,  and  disheartened.  The  arrangement 
we  suggested  for  the  children  did  not  please  him. 
Edith  had  generously  offered  to  assume  the  care  of 
the  little  Vars  heir.  I  had  said  that  I  would  take 
Emily,  and  to  Elise  was  allotted  Becky,  aged  three. 
We  were  all  in  Edith's  living-room  talking  about  it, 
when  Ruth  suddenly  appeared  on  the  scene. 

Now  Ruth  is  an  interior  decorator.  Her  shop  is 
one  of  the  most  successful  and  exclusive  in  New  York 
City.  We're  all  very  proud  of  Ruth.  When  she  ap- 
peared that  day  so  unexpectedly  at  the  Homestead,  I 
spied  her  first  coming  up  the  walk  to  Edith's  door. 

"Well — look  what's  coming!"  I  exclaimed,  for  Ruth 
was  not  alone.  She  was  carrying  Oliver's  littlest  girl, 
Becky. 

"Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Edith. 

"Is  it  Ruth?"  asked  Malcolm,  staring  hard  through 
"Jiis  thick,  near-sighted  glasses. 

"Has  she  got  Becky?"  inquired  Oliver. 

"Explain  yourself,"  laughed  Alec,  going  to  the 
screen  door  and  letting  Ruth  in. 

We  all  gathered  round  her. 

"Hello,  everybody,"  she  smiled  at  us  over  Becky's 
shoulder.  She  was  warm  with  walking.  "Nothing  to 
explain.  Just  decided  to  run  up  here,  that's  all,  and 
found  this  poor  little  thing  crying  down  by  the  gate. 
It's  Becky,  isn't  it,  Oliver?  I  haven't  seen  her  for  a 
year." 

"It's  just  a  shame  you  didn't  let  us  meet  you,"  said 
Edith.  "Walking  in  this  weather!  I  declare  it  is. 


AGAIN  LUCY  NARRATES  277 

Come,  give  that  child  to  me,  and  you  go  on  upstairs 
and  get  washed  up.  She's  ruining  your  skirt.  Come,. 
Becky." 

Becky  is  an  extremely  timid  little  creature.  She 
hadn't  let  any  one  but  Oliver  touch  her  since  Madge 
had  gone  the  day  before.  She  had  been  crying  most 
of  the  time.  Her  lip  quivered  at  the  sight  of  Edith's 
outstretched  hands.  I  saw  her  plump  arm  tighten 
around  Ruth's  neck. 

"Here,  come,  Becky,"  said  Oliver  sternly,  and  of- 
fered to  take  her  himself.  She  turned  away  even  from 
him.  "She  takes  fancies,"  explained  Oliver.  "You're 
in  for  it,  I'm  afraid,  Ruth." 

"Am  I?"  Ruth  said,  flushing  unaccountably.  "Well, 
you  see,"  she  went  on  apologetically,  "I  came  upon  her 
down  there  by  the  gate  just  as  she  had  fallen  down 
and  hurt  her  knee.  I  was  the  only  one  to  pick  her  up, 
so  she  had  to  let  me.  I  put  powder  on  the  bruised 
knee.  It  interested  her.  It  made  her  laugh.  We  had 
quite  a  game,  and  when  I  came  away  she  insisted  upon 
coming,  too." 

"You  see,  Madge  has  started  for  Colorado,"  I  ex- 
plained, "and  Becky " 

"Colorado!"  exclaimed  Ruth.  Of  course  she  didn't 
know. 

We  told  her  about  it. 

"Poor  little  lonely  kiddie,"  Ruth  said  softly  after- 
ward, giving  Becky  a  strange  little  caress  with  the  tip 
of  her  finger  on  the  end  of  the  child's  infinitesimal 


278  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

nose.  "Most  as  forlorn  as  some  one  they  don't  invite 
to  family  reunions  any  more." 

"Why,  Ruth,"  I  remonstrated.  "We  thought— you 
see " 

"Never  mind,"  she  interrupted  lightly.  "I  wasn't 
serious.  I'll  run  upstairs  now,  and  freshen  up  a  bit." 

"Come,  Becky,"  ordered  Oliver,  "get  down." 

I  saw  Becky's  arm  tighten  around  Ruth's  neck  again. 
She's  an  unaccountable  child. 

Ruth  said  quietly,  "Let  her  come  upstairs  with  me, 
if  she  wants.  I  haven't  had  a  welcome  like  this  since 
the  days  of  poor  little  Dandy." 

An  hour  later  Edith  and  I  found  Ruth  sitting  in  a 
rocking-chair  in  the  room  that  used  to  be  hers  years 
ago  when  she  was  a  young  girl.  She  was  holding 
Becky. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing?"  asked  Edith. 

"I  never  held  a  sleeping  child  before,  and  I'm  dis- 
covering," replied  Ruth,  softly  so  as  not  to  disturb 
Becky.  "Aren't  the  little  things  limp?" 

"Well,  put  her  down  now,  do,"  said  practical  Edith. 
"We  want  you  downstairs.  Luncheon  is  nearly 
ready." 

"I  can't  yet,"  said  Ruth.  "Every  time  I  start  to 
leave  her  she  cries,  and  won't  let  me.  Isn't  it  odd  of 
the  little  creature  ?  You  two  go  on  down.  I'll  be  with 
you  as  soon  as  I  can." 

Later  that  afternoon  we  continued  the  discussion 
that  Ruth  had  interrupted.  Oliver  didn't  seem  to  be 
.any  more  reconciled  to  the  arrangement  than  before. 


AGAIN  LUCY  NARRATES  279 

"I  hate  to  break  the  home  all  up,"  he  objected.  "I 
want  to  keep  the  children  together.  Madge  does,  too. 
I  should  think  there  ought  to  be  some  one  who  likes 
children,  and  who  wants  a  home,  who  could  come  and 
help  me  out  for  six  months,  who  wouldn't  cost  too- 
much." 

"Hired  help!  No,  no.  Never  works,"  Tom  said,, 
shaking  his  head. 

"You  have  to  be  away  so  much  on  business,  you 
know,  Oliver,"  I  reminded. 

Suddenly  Ruth  spoke,  picking  up  a  magazine  and 
opening  it.  "How  would  I  do,  instead  of  the  hired 
help,  Oliver?"  she  asked,  casually  glancing  at  an  ad- 
vertisement. "Becky  didn't  seem  to  mind  me." 

"You!"  echoed  Malcolm. 

"Why,  Ruth!"  I  exclaimed. 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean?"  demanded 
Edith. 

"Oh,  thanks,"  smiled  Oliver  kindly  upon  her. 
"Thanks,  Ruth.  It  is  bully  of  you  to  offer,  but,  of 
course,  I  wouldn't  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"Why  not?"  she  inquired  calmly.  "I  could  give 
you  the  entire  summer.  I'm  taking  a  two  months' 
vacation  this  year." 

"Oh,  no,  no.  No,  thanks,  Ruth.  Our  apartment  is 
no  vacation  spot.  I  assure  you  of  that.  Hot,  noisy, 
one  general  housework  girl.  It  certainly  is  fine  of  you, 
but  no,  thanks,  Ruth.  Such  a  sacrifice  is  not  neces- 
sary." 


280  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  sacrifice,"  remarked  Ruth,  turning 
a  page  of  the  magazine. 

"Oh,  come,  come,  Ruth!"  broke  in  Tom  irritably. 
"Let  us  not  discuss  such  an  impossibility.  We're 
wasting  time.  You  have  your  duties.  This  is  not  one 
of  them.  It's  a  fine  impulse,  generous.  Oliver  appre- 
ciates it.  But  it's  quite  out  of  the  question." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  Ruth  pursued.  "For  an  unat- 
tached woman  to  come  and  take  care  of  her  brother's 
children  during  her  vacation  seems  to  me  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world." 

"You  know  nothing  about  children,"  snorted  Tom. 

"I  can  learn,"  Ruth  persisted. 

Ruth's  offer  proved  to  be  no  passing  whim,  no  senti- 
mental impulse  of  the  moment.  Scarcely  a  week  later, 
and  she  was  actually  installed  in  Oliver's  small  apart- 
ment. The  family  talked  of  little  else  at  their  various 
dinner-tables  for  weeks  to  come.  Of  all  Ruth's  va- 
garies this  seemed  the  vaguest  and  most  mystifying. 

Oliver's  apartment  is  really  quite  awful,  disorderly, 
crowded,  incongruous.  It  contains  a  specimen  of 
every  kind  of  furniture  since  the  period  of  hair-cloth 
down  to  mission — cast-offs  from  the  homes  of  Oliver's 
more  fortunate  brothers  and  sisters.  When  I  first  saw 
Ruth  there  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  of  unpacking, 
the  room  in  Irving  Place  with  its  old  chests  and  sam- 
ovars, Esther  Claff  quietly  writing  in  her  corner,  the 
telephone  bell  muffled  to  an  undisturbing  whirr, 
flashed  before  me. 

The  baby  was  crying.    I  smelled  the  odor  of  steam- 


AGAIN  LUCY  NARRATES  281 

ing  clothes,  in  process  of  washing  in  the  near-by 
kitchen.  I  heard  the  deep  voice  of  the  big  Irish  wash- 
woman I  had  engaged,  conversing  with  the  rough  Nor- 
wegian. Becky  was  hanging  on  to  Ruth's  skirt  and 
begging  to  be  taken  up.  In  the  apartment  below  some 
one  was  playing  a  victrola.  I  hoped  Ruth  was  not  as 
conscious  as  I  of  Van  de  Vere's  at  this  time  in  the 
morning — low  bells,  subdued  voices,  velvet- footed  at- 
tendants, system,  order. 

"Well,  Ruth,"  I  broke  out,  "I  hope  you'll  be  able 
to  stand  this.  If  it's  too  much  you  must  write  and  let 
me  know.'' 

She  picked  up  Becky  and  held  her  a  moment.  "I 
think  I  shall  manage  to  pull  through,"  she  replied. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

RUTH   DRAWS   CONCLUSIONS 

WILL  and  I  were  buried  in  a  little  place  in  New- 
foundland all  summer,  and  Ruth's  letters  to 
us,  always  three  days  old  when  they  reached  me,  were 
few  and  infrequent.  What  brief  notes  she  did  write 
were  non-committal.  They  told  their  facts  without 
comment.  I  tried  to  read  between  the  practical  lines 
that  announced  she  had  changed  the  formula  for  the 
baby's  milk,  that  she  had  had  to  let  down  Emily's 
dresses,  that  she  had  succeeded  in  persuading  Oliver 
to  spend  his  three  weeks'  vacation  with  Madge  in 
Colorado,  finally  that  Becky  had  been  ill,  but  was  bet- 
ter now.  I  was  unable  to  draw  any  conclusions.  I 
knew  what  sort  of  service  Ruth's  new  enterprise  re- 
quired— duties  performed  over  and  over  again,  homely 
tasks,  no  pay,  no  praise.  I  knew  the  daily  wear  and 
tear  on  good  intentions  and  exalted  motives.  I  used 
to  conjecture  by  the  hour  with  Will  upon  what  effect 
the  summer  would  have  on  Ruth's  theories.  She  has 
advanced  ideas  for  women.  She  believes  in  their 
emancipation. 

Edith  and  Alec  had  gone  to  Alaska.     They  could 
not  report  to  me  how  Ruth  was  progressing.     Elise 

282 


RUTH  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS       283 

had  been  unable  to  leave  her  cottage  on  the  Cape  for 
a  single  trip  to  Boston.  Only  Oliver's  enthusiastic 
letters  (Oliver  who  never  sees  anything  but  the  ob- 
vious) assured  me  that,  at  least  on  the  surface,  Ruth 
had  not  regretted  her  undertaking. 

Will  and  I  returned  the  first  of  September.  Ruth's 
two  months  would  terminate  on  September  tenth,  and 
I  had  come  back  early  in  order  to  help  close  Oliver's 
apartment  and  prepare  for  the  distribution  of  the  chil- 
dren, which  we  had  arranged  in  the  early  summer. 
Oliver  was  still  in  Colorado  when  I  returned.  He  was 
expected  within  a  week,  however.  I  called  Ruth  up 
on  the  telephone  as  soon  as  I  could,  and  told  her  I 
would  be  over  to  see  her  the  next  day,  or  the  day  after. 
I  couldn't  say  just  when,  for  Elise  and  Tom,  who  were 
returning  to  Wisconsin,  were  to  spend  the  following 
night  with  me.  Perhaps  after  dinner  we  would  all  get 
into  the  automobile  and  drop  in  upon  her. 

We  all  did.  Oliver's  apartment  is  on  the  other  side 
of  Boston  from  Will  and  me.  We  didn't  reach  there 
until  after  eight  o'clock.  The  children,  of  course,  were 
in  bed.  Ruth  met  us  in  the  hall,  half-way  up  the  stairs. 
She  was  paler  than  usual.  As  I  saw  her  it  flashed  over 
me  how  blind  we  had  been  to  allow  this  girl — tempera- 
mental, exotic,  sensitive  to  surroundings — to  plunge 
herself  into  the  responsibilities  that  most  women  ac- 
quire gradually.  Her  first  real  vacation  in  years  too ! 

Elise  and  I  kissed  her. 

"You  look  a  little  tired,  Ruth,"  said  Elise. 


284  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"A  woman  with  children  expects  to  look  tired  some- 
times," Ruth  replied,  with  the  sophistication  of  a 
mother  of  three.  "I  had  to  be  up  a  few  nights  with 
Becky." 

I  slipped  my  arm  about  Ruth  as  we  mounted  the 
stairs.  "Has  it  been  an  awful  summer?"  I  whispered. 

She  didn't  answer  me — simply  drew  away.  I  felt 
my  inquiry  displeased  her.  At  the  top  of  the  landing 
she  ran  ahead  and  opened  the  door  to  the  apartment, 
inviting  us  in.  I  was  unprepared  for  the  sight  that 
awaited  us. 

"Why,  Ruth!"  I  exclaimed,  for  I  recognized  all 
about  me  familiar  bowl  and  candlestick  from  Irving 
Place,  old  carved  chest,  Russian  samovar,  embroidered 
strips  of  peasant's  handicraft. 

"How  lovely!"  said  Elise,  pushing  by  me  into  Oli- 
ver's living-room. 

It  really  was.  I  gazed  speechless.  It  made  me  think 
of  the  inside  of  a  peasant's  cottage  as  sometimes  pret- 
tily portrayed  upon  the  stage.  It  was  very  simple, 
almost  bare,  and  yet  there  was  a  charm.  At  the  win- 
dows hung  yellowish,  unbleached  cotton.  On  the  sills 
were  red  geraniums  in  bloom.  A  big  clump  of  south- 
ern pine  filled  an  old  copper  basin  on  a  low  tavern 
table.  A  queer  sort  of  earthen  lamp  cast  a  soft  light 
over  all.  In  the  dining-room  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
three  sturdy  little  high  chairs  painted  bright  red,  picked 
up  in  some  antique  shop,  evidently.  On  the  sideboard, 
a  common  table  covered  with  a  red  cloth,  I  saw  the 
glow  of  old  pewter. 


RUTH  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS       285 

"You've  done  wonders  to  this  place,"  commented 
Tom,  gazing  about. 

"Oliver  gave  me  full  permission  before  he  went 
away,"  Ruth  explained.  "I've  stored  a  whole  load-full 
of  his  things.  It  is  rather  nice,  I  think,  myself." 

"Nice  ?  I  should  say  it  was !  But  did  it  pay  for  so 
short  a  time?"  I  inquired. 

"Oliver  can  keep  the  things  as  long  as  he  wants 
them,"  said  Ruth. 

"But  it  must  make  your  room  in  Irving  Place  an 
empty  spot  to  go  back  to,"  I  replied. 

Ruth  went  over  to  the  lamp  and  did  something  to 
the  shade.  "Oh,"  she  said  carelessly,  "haven't  I  told 
you?  I'm  not  going  back.  I've  resigned  from  Van 
de  Vere's.  Do  all  sit  down." 

Ruth  might  just  as  well  have  set  off  a  cannon- 
cracker.  We  were  startled  to  say  the  least.  We  stood 
and  stared  at  her. 

"Do  sit  down,"  she  repeated. 

"But,  Ruth,  why  have  you  done  this?  Why  have 
you  resigned  ?"  I  gasped  at  last.  She  finished  with  the 
lamp-shade  before  she  spoke. 

"I  insist  upon  your  sitting  down,"  she  said.  "There. 
That's  better."  Then  she  gave  a  queer,  low  laugh  and 
said,  "I  think  it  was  the  sight  of  the  baby's  little  flan- 
nel shirt  stretched  over  the  wooden  frame  hanging  in 
the  bath-room  that  was  the  last  straw  that  broke  me 
before  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Scot-Williams." 

"But " 

"There  was  some  one  immediately  available  to  take 


286  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

my  place  at  Van  de  Vere's — another  protegee  of  Mrs. 
Scot-Williams.  I  had  to  decide  quickly.  Madge  is 
improving  every  week,  Oliver  writes,  but  she  has  got 
to  stay  in  Colorado  at  least  during  the  winter,  the  doc- 
tor says.  Becky  is  still  far  from  strong.  She  was 
very  ill  this  summer.  She  doesn't  take  to  strangers.  I 
think  I'm  needed  here.  It  seemed  necessary  for  me 
to  stay." 

"Perfect  nonsense,"  Tom  growled.  "There's  no 
more  call  for  you  to  give  up  your  business  than  for 
Malcolm  his.  Perfectly  absurd." 

"But  oh,  how  fine — how  fine  of  you,  Ruth!"  ex- 
claimed Elise. 

"You  shan't  do  it.    You  shan't,"  I  ejaculated. 

"Don't  all  make  a  mistake,  please,"  said  Ruth.  "It 
is  no  sacrifice.  There's  no  unselfishness  about  it,  no 
fine  altruism.  I'm  staying  because  I  want  to.  I'm 
happier  here.  Can't  any  of  you  understand  that?"  she 
asked.  There  was  a  quality  in  her  voice  that  made  us 
all  glance  at  her  sharply.  There  was  a  look  in  her 
eyes  which  reminded  me  of  her  as  she  had  appeared  in 
the  suffrage  parade.  This  sister  of  mine  had  evidently 
seen  another  vision.  If  it  had  made  her  cheeks  a  little 
pale,  it  had  more  than  made  up  for  it  in  the  ex- 
alted tone  of  her  voice  and  expression  of  her  eyes. 

"You  say  you're  happier  here?"  asked  Elise. 
"Weren't  you  happy  then,  down  there  in  New  York, 
Ruth?" 

"Yes,  for  a  while.  But  you  see  my  life  was  like  a 
circle  uncompleted.  In  keeping  trimmed  the  lights  of 


RUTH  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS       287 

a  home  even  though  not  my  own,  even  only  for  a 
short  period,  I  am  tracing  in,  ever  so  faintly,  the 
yawning  gap." 

"Gap !    But  Ruth,  we  thought " 

She  flushed  a  little  in  spite  of  herself.  We  were  all 
staring  hard  at  her.  "You  see,"  she  went  on,  "I've 
never  been  needed  before  as  I  have  this  summer.  A 
home  has  never  depended  upon  me  for  its  life  before. 
I've  liked  it.  I  don't  see  why  you're  so  surprised.  It's 
natural  for  a  woman  to  want  human  ties.  Content- 
ment has  stolen  over  me  with  every  little  common  task 
I  have  had  to  do." 

"But,  Ruth,"  I  stammered,  "we  never  thought  that 
this — housekeeping — such  menial  work  as  this,  was 
meant  for  you" 

"Nor  love  and  devotion  either,  I  suppose,"  she  said 
a  little  bitterly,  "nor  the  protection  of  a  fireside,"  she 
shrugged.  "Such  rewards  are  not  given  without  ser- 
vice, I've  heard.  And  service  paid  by  love  does  not 
seem  menial  to  me." 

Tom  laid  down  his  hat  upon  the  table,  and  leaned 
forward.  He  had  been  observing  Ruth  keenly.  I  saw 
the  flash  of  victory  in  his  eye.  Tom  had  never  been 
in  sympathy  with  Ruth's  emancipation  ideas,  and  I 
saw  in  her  desire  for  a  home  and  intimate  associations 
the  crumbling  of  her  strongest  defense  against  his  dis- 
approval. I  wished  I  could  come  to  her  aid.  Always 
my  sympathies  had  instinctively  gone  out  to  her  in  the 
controversies  that  her  theories  gave  rise  to.  Would 


288  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

Tom  plant  at  last  his  flag  upon  her  long-defended  for- 
tress ? 

"This  is  odd  talk  for  you,  Ruth,"  said  Tom. 

"Is  it?"  she  inquired  innocently.  Did  she  not  ob- 
serve Tom  calling  together  his  forces  for  a  last 
charge  ? 

"Certainly,"  he  replied.  "You  gave  up  home,  love, 
devotion — all  that,  when  you  might  have  had  it,  years 
ago.  You  emancipated  yourself  from  the  sort  of  ser- 
vice that  is  paid  by  the  protection  of  a  fireside." 

"Well?"  she  smiled,  unalarmed. 

"You  see  your  mistake  now,"  he  hurried  on.  "You 
make  your  mad  dash  for  freedom,  and  now  come  seek- 
ing shelter.  That  is  what  most  of  'em  do.  You  tried 
freedom  and  found  it  lacking." 

"And  what  is  your  conclusion,  Tom?"  asked  Ruth, 
baring  herself,  it  seemed  to  me,  to  the  onslaught  of 
Tom's  opposition. 

"My  conclusion!  Do  I  need  even  to  state  it?"  he 
inquired,  as  if  flourishing  the  flag  before  sticking  its 
staff  into  the  pinnacle  of  Ruth's  defense.  "Is  it  not 
self-evident?  If  you  had  married  five  years  ago,  to- 
day you  would  have  a  permanent  family  of  your  own 
instead  of  a  borrowed  one  for  eight  months.  Your 
freedom  has  robbed  you  of  what  you  imply  you  desire 
— a  home,  I  mean.  My  conclusion  is  that  your  own 
history  proves  that  freedom  is  a  dangerous  thing  for 
women." 

Ruth  answered  Tom  quietly.  I  thrilled  at  her  mild 
and  gentle  manner.  We  all  listened  intently. 


RUTH  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS       289 

"Tom,"  she  said  slowly  and  with  conviction,  "my 
own  history  proves  just  the  opposite.  The  very  fact 
that  I  do  feel  the  deficiencies  of  freedom,  is  proof  that 
it  has  not  been  a  dangerous  tool.  If  it  had  killed  in 
me  the  home  instinct,  then  I  might  concede  that  your 
fears  were  justified,  but  if,  as  you  say,  most  women 
do  not  rove  far  but  come  home  in  answer  to  their 
heart's  call,  then  men  need  not  fear  to  cut  the  leash." 
With  some  such  words  Ruth  pulled  Tom's  flag  from 
out  her  fortress  where  he  had  planted  it.  As  Tom 
made  no  reply  she  went  on  talking.  "Once  I  had  no 
excuse  for  existence  unless  I  married.  My  efforts 
were  narrowed  to  that  one  accomplishment.  I  sought 
marriage,  desperately,  to  escape  the  stigma  of  becom- 
ing a  superfluous  and  unoccupied  female.  Today  if  I 
marry  it  will  be  in  answer  to  my  great  desire,  and, 
whether  married  or  not,  a  broader  outlook  and  a 
deeper  appreciation  are  mine.  I  believe  that  working 
hard  for  something  worth  while  pays  dividends  to  a 
woman  always.  If  I  never  have  a  home  of  my  own," 
Ruth  went  on,  "and  I  may  not — spinsters,"  she  added 
playfully,  "like  the  poor  must  always  be  with  us — at 
least  I  have  a  trade  by  which  I  can  be  self-supporting. 
I'm  better  equipped  whatever  happens.  Oh,  I  don't  re- 
gret having  gone  forth.  No,  Tom,  pioneers  must  ex- 
pect to  pay.  I'm  so  convinced,"  she  burst  forth 
eagerly,  "that  wider  activities  and  broader  outlooks  for 
women  generally  are  a  wise  thing,  that  if  I  had  a  for- 
tune left  me  I  would  spend  it  in  establishing  trade- 
schools  in  little  towns  all  over  the  country,  like  the 


290  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

Carnegie  libraries,  so  that  all  girls  could  have  easy 
access  to  self-support.  I'd  make  it  the  custom  for  girls 
to  have  a  trade  as  well  as  an  education  and  athletic  and 
parlor  accomplishments.  I'd  unhamper  women  in 
every  way  I  knew  how,  give  them  a  training  to  use 
modern  tools,  and  then  I'd  give  them  the  tools.  They 
won't  tear  down  homes  with  them.  Don't  be  afraid  of 
that.  Instinct  is  too  strong.  They'll  build  better 
ones." 

My  brother  shook  his  head.  "I  give  you  up,  Ruth, 
I  give  you  up,"  he  said. 

"Don't  do  that,"  she  replied.  "I'm  like  so  many 
other  girls  in  this  age.  Don't  give  us  up.  We  want 
you.  We  need  your  conservatism  to  balance  and 
steady.  We  need  our  new  freedom  guided  and  di- 
rected. We're  the  new  generation,  Tom.  We're  the 
new  spirit.  There  are  hundreds — thousands — of  us. 
Don't  give  us  up."  I  seemed  to  see  Ruth's  army  sud- 
denly swarming  about  her  as  she  spoke,  and  Ruth, 
starry-eyed  and  victorious,  standing  on  the  summit  in 
their  midst. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

BOB   DRAWS   CONCLUSIONS   TOO 

IT  was  Edith  who  told  me  the  news  about  Mrs. 
Sewall.  I  ought  to  have  been  prepared  for  any- 
thing. Ever  since  Ruth  had  been  employed  as  secre- 
tary to  Mrs.  Sewall  there  had  been  something  mys- 
terious about  their  relations.  Ruth  had  never  ex- 
plained the  details  of  her  life  in  the  Sewall  household 
— I  had  never  inquired  too  particularly — but  whenever 
she  referred  to  Mrs.  Sewall  there  was  a  troubled  and 
sort  of  wistful  expression  in  her  eyes  which  made  me 
suspicious.  She  admired  Mrs.  Sewall,  no  doubt  of 
that.  She  felt  deep  affection  for  her.  Several  times 
she  had  said  to  me  during  our  intimate  talks  together, 
of  which  we  had  had  a  good  many  lately,  "Oh,  Lucy, 
I  wish  the  ocean  wasn't  so  wide.  I'd  run  across  for 
over  a  Sunday."  I  knew,  without  asking,  that  Ruth 
was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Sewall.  She  was  living  in  Lon- 
don. 

Edith  called  me  on  the  telephone  early  one  Monday 
morning.  She  frequently  is  in  Boston,  shopping. 
From  the  hour,  evidently  she  had  just  arrived  from 
Hilton. 

"Well,"  she  began  excitedly,  "what  have  you  got  to 
say?" 

291 


292  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

"Say?    What  about?" 

"Haven't  you  seen  the  paper?"  she  demanded. 

"Not  yet,"  I  had  to  confess.  "I've  been  terribly 
rushed  this  morning." 

"You  don't  know  what  has  happened,  then?" 

"No.  What  has?  Out  with  it,"  I  retorted  a  little 
alarmed.  Edith's  voice  was  high-pitched  and  strained. 

"The  old  lady  Sewall  has  died." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  I  replied,  relieved,  however. 

"In  London — a  week  ago,"  went  on  Edith. 

"Really?    What  a  shame!     Does  Ruth  know?" 

"She  ought  to.     It  rather  affects  her." 

"How's  that?" 

"How's  that!"  repeated  Edith.  "Good  heavens,  if 
you'd  read  your  paper  you'd  understand  how.  The 
old  lady's  will  is  published.  It's  terribly  thrilling." 

The  color  mounted  to  my  face.  "What  do  you 
mean,  Edith?" 

"Never  you  mind.  You  go  along  and  read  for  your- 
self, and  then  meet  me  at  one  o'clock — no,  make  it 
twelve.  I've  got  to  talk  to  some  one — quick.  I  never 
saw  the  article  myself  until  I  was  on  the  train  coming 
down.  I'm  just  about  bursting.  Good  gracious,  Lucy, 
hustle  up,  and  make  it  eleven  o'clock,  sharp." 

We  agreed  on  a  meeting-place  and  I  hung  up  the 
receiver,  went  upstairs  to  my  room,  sat  down,  and 
opened  the  paper.  I  found  the  article  Edith  referred 
to  easily  enough.  It  was  on  the  inside  of  the  front 
page  printed  underneath  large  letters.  It  was  appal- 
ling! The  third  sentence  of  the  headlines  contained 


BOB  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS  TOO   293. 

my  sister's  name.  There  must  be  some  mistake. 
Wasn't  such  news  as  this  borne  by  a  lawyer  with 
proper  ceremony  and  form,  or  at  least  delivered  by 
mail,  inside  an  envelope  sealed  with  red  wax?  Ruth 
had  known  nothing  of  this  three  days  ago  when  I 
called  to  see  her.  It  could  not  be  true.  All  the  way 
into  Boston  on  the  electric  car,  I  felt  self-conscious  and 
ill-at-ease.  I  was  afraid  some  one  I  knew  would  meet 
me,  and  refer  to  the  newspaper  announcement.  I 
would  dislike  to  confess,  "I  know  no  more  about  it 
than  you."  I  hate  newspaper  notoriety  anyhow. 

Edith  greeted  me  as  if  we  hadn't  met  for  years, 
kissed  me  ecstatically  and  grasped  both  my  hands  tight 
in  hers.  Her  sparkling  eyes  expressed  what  the  pub- 
licity of  the  hotel  corridor,  where  we  met,  prevented 
her  from  proclaiming  aloud. 

"Where  can  we  go  to  be  alone  for  half  a  minute?" 
she  whispered. 

"Let's  try  in  here,"  I  said,  and  we  entered  a  deserted 
reception-room,  and  sat  down  in  a  bay-window. 

"Did  you  telephone  to  Ruth?"  was  Edith's  first  re- 
mark. 

I  shook  my  head.    "No.    I  didn't  like  to,"  I  said. 

"Nor  I,"  confessed  Edith.  "She's  always  been 
touchy  with  me  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Sewall  since 
the  row.  Isn't  it  too  exciting?" 

"Can  it  be  legal,  Edith?"  I  inquired. 

"Of  course,  silly.  Wills  aren't  published  until 
they're  looked  into.  Legal  ?  Of  course  it  is.  I  always 


294  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

.said  Ruth  would  do  something  splendid,  one  of  these 
days,  and  she  has,  she  has — the  rascal." 

"You've  got  so  much  money  yourself,  Edith,  why 
•does  a  little  more  in  the  family  please  you  so?"  I 
.asked.  Edith  was  extremely  excited. 

"A  little.  It  isn't  a  little.  It's  a  lot.  But  it  isn't 
just  the  money.  It's  more.  It's  what  the  money  does. 
There  has  always  been  a  kind  of  pitying  attitude 
toward  us  in  Hilton  since  that  Sewall  affair  of  Ruth's, 
for  all  my  efforts.  This  clears  it  up  absolutely. 
Haven't  you  read  the  way  the  thing's  worded  ?  Wait  a 
•minute."  She  opened  her  folded  paper.  "Here,  I 
have  it."  Her  eyes  knew  exactly  where  to  look. 
Ruth's  name  appeared  in  the  will  at  the  very  end  of  a 
long  list  of  bequests  to  various  charitable  institutions. 

"Listen.  'All  the  rest,  residue,  and  remainder  of 
my  property,  wheresoever  and  whatsoever,  including 
my  house  in  New  York  City,  my  house  in  Hilton, 
Massachusetts,  known  as  Grassmere;  my  furniture, 
books,  pictures  and  jewels,  I  give,  devise,  and  be- 
queath to  the  former  fiancee  of  my  son,  now  deceased, 
in  affectionate  memory  of  our  relations.  This  portion 
•of  my  estate  to  be  used  and  to  be  directed,  according 
to  the  dictates  of  her  own  high  discretion,  during  the 
term  of  her  natural  life  and  at  her  death  to  pass  to  her 
lawful  issue.'  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  to  equal 
it?"  demanded  Edith.  "Don't  you  see  the  old  lady 
recognizes  Ruth  before  the  world?  Don't  you  see, 
"however  humiliated  I  was  at  that  distressing  affair 
three  or  four  summers  ago,  it's  all  wiped  off  the  slate 


BOB  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS  TOO  295 

now,  by  this  ?  She  makes  Ruth  her  heir,  Lucy.  Don't 
you  see  that?  And  she  does  it  affectionately,  too.  I 
can't  get  over  it!  I  don't  know  what  made  the  old 
veteran  do  such  a  thing.  I  don't  care  much  either. 
All  I  know  is,  that  we're  fixed  all  right  in  Hilton 
society  now.  Grassmere  Ruth's!  Good  heavens — 
think  of  it!  Think  of  the  power  in  my  hands,  if  only 
Ruth  behaves,  to  pay  back  a  few  old  scores.  I  only 
wish  Breck  was  alive.  She'd  marry  him  now,  I  guess, 
with  all  this  recognition.  I  wonder  whatever  she'll  do- 
with  Grassmere  anyhow." 

"Turn  it  into  some  sort  of  institution  for  making 
women  independent  human  beings,  I'll  wager."  I 
laughed,  recalling  Ruth's  words  of  scarcely  a  fort- 
night ago. 

"If  only  she  hadn't  gotten  so  abnormal,  and  queer!" 
Edith  sighed.  "Perhaps  this  stroke  of  good  luck  will 
make  her  a  little  more  like  the  rest  of  us.  We  must 
all  look  out  and  not  let  Ruth  do  anything  ridiculous 
with  this  fortune  of  hers." 

Will  and  I  went  over  to  see  Ruth  that  evening. 

"Why,  hello!"  she  called  down,  surprised,  through 
the  tube,  in  answer  to  my  ring.  "Will  and  you! 
Really?  Come  right  up." 

"She  doesn't  know,"  I  told  Will,  pushing  open  the 
heavy  door  and  beginning  to  mount. 

"Guess  not,"  agreed  my  husband.  "Here's  her 
evening  paper  in  her  box,  untouched." 

We  found  Ruth  just  finishing  with  the  dishes.    The 


296  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

maid-of-all-work  was  out,  and  Ruth  was  alone.  She 
called  to  me  to  come  back  and  help  her,  and  sang  out 
brightly  for  Will  to  amuse  himself  with  the  paper. 
He'd  probably  find  it  downstairs  in  the  box. 

Five  minutes  later  Ruth  slipped  off  her  blue-checked 
apron,  and  we  joined  Will  by  the  low  lamp  in  the 
living-room.  My  sister  looked  very  pretty  in  a  loose 
black  velvet  smock.  Her  hair  was  coiled  into  a  simple 
little  knot  in  the  nape  of  her  neck.  There  were  a 
few  slightly  waving  strands  astray  about  her  face. 
Her  hands,  still  damp  from  recent  dish-washing,  were 
the  color  of  pink  coral. 

"I'm  tired  tonight,"  she  said,  sighing  audibly,  and 
pulling  herself  up  on  the  top  of  the  high  carved  chest. 
She  tucked  a  dull  red  pillow  behind  her  head,  and 
leaned  back  in  the  corner.  "There !  This  is  comfort," 
she  went  on.  "Read  the  news  out  loud  to  me,  Will, 
while  I  sit  here  and  luxuriate."  She  closed  her  eyes. 

"All  right,"  Will  agreed.  "By  the  way,"  he  broke 
off,  as  unconsciously  as  possible,  a  minute  or  so  later, 
"Have  you  heard  anything  from  Mrs.  Sewall  lately?" 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  The  lady's  name  invari- 
ably clouded  my  sister's  bright  spirit.  She  opened 
rier  eyes.  They  were  wistful. 

"No,"  she  replied  quietly,  "I  haven't.  She's  in  Eng- 
land. Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  I  was  just  wondering,"  my  husband  replied, 
losing  his  splendid  courage.  "I  suppose  you  two  got 
to  be  pretty  good  friends." 

"Yes,  we  did,"  Ruth  replied  shortly.     There  was 


BOB  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS  TOO   297 

another  pause.  Then  in  a  low,  troubled  voice  Ruth 
added,  "But  not  now.  We're  not  friends  now.  Some- 
thing happened.  All  her  affection  for  me  has  died. 
I  have  never  been  forgiven  for  something." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  be  so  sure,"  belittled  Will,  making 
violent  signs  to  me  to  announce  the  news  we  bore. 

I  had  a  clipping  in  my  shopping-bag  cut  from  the 
morning  paper.  I  took  it  out  of  the  envelope  that 
contained  it. 

"Ruth,"  I  began,  "here's  something  I  ran  across 
today." 

The  telephone  interrupted  sharply. 

"Just  a  minute,"  she  said,  and  slid  down  off  the 
chest  and  went  out  into  the  hall.  "Hello,"  I  heard  her 
say.  "Hello,"  and  then  in  a  changed  voice,  "Oh, 
you?"  A  pause  and  then,  "Really?  Tonight?"  An- 
other pause,  and  more  gently.  "Of  course  you  must. 
Of  course  I  do,"  and  at  last  very  tenderly,  "Yes,  I'll 
be  right  here.  I'll  be  waiting.  Good-by." 

I  looked  at  Will,  and  he  lifted  his  eyebrows.  Ruth 
came  back  and  stood  in  the  doorway.  There  was  a 
peculiar,  shining  quality  about  her  expression. 

"That  was  Bob,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Bob?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Bob  Jennings?"  ejaculated  Will. 

Ruth  nodded  and  smiled.  Standing  there  before  us, 
dressed  simply  in  the  plain  black  smock,  cheeks 
flushed,  eyes  like  stars,  she  reminded  me  of  some  rare 
stone  in  a  velvet  case.  The  bareness  of  the  room, 


298  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

with  its  few  genuine  articles,  set  off  the  jewel-like 
brightness  of  my  sister  in  a  startling  fashion. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  old  Bob's  turned  up,"  com- 
mented Will. 

"Tell  us,"  bluntly  I  demanded,  "what  in  the  world 
is  Robert  Jennings  doing  around  here,  Ruth?" 

"Bob's  been  in  town  for  several  days,"  she  replied. 
"He  has  just  telephoned  that  he  is  called  back  on 
business.  His  train  leaves  in  a  little  over  an  hour. 
He's  dropping  in  here  in  ten  minutes." 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  you  even  wrote  to  each  other," 
I  said. 

Ruth  came  over  to  the  table  and  sat  down  in  a  low 
chair,  stretching  out  her  folded  hands  arms-length 
along  the  table's  surface,  and  leaning  toward  us. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  two  about  it,"  she  announced 
with  finality.  "I  wrote  to  Bob,"  she  confessed,  half 
proud,  half  apologetic.  "I  wrote  to  Bob  without  any 
excuse  at  all,  except  that  I  wanted  to  tell  him  what 
I'd  found  out.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  that  I  had  dis- 
covered that  this  sort  of  thing,"  she  opened  her  hands, 
and  made  a  little  gesture  that  included  everything  that 
those  few  small  rooms  of  Oliver's  epitomized,  "that 
this  sort  of  thing,"  she  resumed,  "was  what  most 
women  want  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
Any  other  activity  was  simply  preparation,  or  cour- 
ageous makeshift  if  this  was  denied.  I  made  it  easy 
for  Bob,  in  my  letter,  to  answer  me  in  the  spirit  of 
friendly  argument  if  he  chose,  but  he  didn't.  He  came 
on  instead.  We're  going  to  be  married,"  she  said,  in 


BOB  DRAWS  CONCLUSIONS  TOO   299 

a  voice  as  casual  as  if  she  were  announcing  that  they 
were  going  out  for  dinner. 

"You're  going  to  be  married?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes,"  she  nodded.  "After  all  these  years !  Once," 
she  went  on  in  a  triumphant  voice,  "our  fields  of  vision 
were  so  small  that  our  differences  of  opinion  loomed 
up  like  insurmountable  barriers.  Now  the  differences 
are  mere  specks  on  our  broadened  outlooks.  Oh,  I 
know,"  she  went  on  as  if  inspired,  "I've  been  a  long 
journey,  simply  to  come  back  to  Bob  again.  But  it 
hasn't  been  in  vain.  There  was  no  short  cut  to  the 
perfect  understanding  that  is  Bob's  and  mine  today/' 

"And  when,"  timidly  I  inquired,  "do  you  intend  to 
be  married,  Ruth?" 

My  sister's  expression  clouded.  She  smiled,  and 
shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "I  wish  I 
did.  Years  are  so  precious  when  one  is  concealing  a 
little  nest  of  gray  hairs  behind  one's  left  ear.  Bob  and 
I  have  got  to  wait.  You  see  Bob  wasn't  planning  for 
this.  He  had  some  idea  a  career  would  always  satisfy 
me.  He  hasn't  been  saving.  He  has  put  about  all  he 
has  been  able  to  earn  into  fighting  for  clean  politics. 
I  myself  haven't  been  able  to  lay  by  but  a  paltry  thou- 
sand. Madge  comes  home  in  May.  I  shall  then  prob- 
ably have  to  look  up  another  job  for  myself  somewhere 
or  other,  while  Bob's  establishing  himself  and  making 
ready  for  me  out  there." 

Will  cleared  his  throat  and  coughed.  He  had  sim- 
ply stared  until  now.  "I  suppose,"  he  said,  as  if  in 
an  attempt  to  lighten  the  conversation  with  a  little 


300  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

light  humor,  "I  suppose  a  legacy  of  some  sort  wouldn't 
prove  unwelcome  to  you  and  Bob  just  about  now." 

It  must  have  struck  Ruth  as  a  stereotyped  attempt 
at  fun.  But  she  smiled  and  replied  in  the  same  vein, 
"I  think  we'd  know  how  to  make  use  of  a  portion  of 
it."  Then  she  rose.  The  door  bell  had  rung  sharply 
twice.  "There  he  is,"  she  explained.  "There's  Bob 
now.  I'll  let  him  in." 

She  went  out  into  the  hall  and  pressed  the  button 
that  released  the  lock  of  the  door  three  floors  below. 

I  knew  how  fleeting  every  minute  of  last  hours  be- 
fore train-time  can  be.  I  motioned  to  Will,  and  when 
Ruth  came  back  to  us  I  said,  "We'll  just  run  down 
the  back  way,  Ruth." 

She  flashed  me  an  appreciative  glance.  "You  don't 
need  to,"  she  deprecated. 

"Still,  we  will,"  I  assured  her,  and  then  I  went  over 
and  kissed  my  radiant  sister. 

Her  face  was  illumined  as  it  used  to  be  years  ago 
when  Robert  Jennings  was  on  his  way  to  her.  The 
same  old  tenderness  gleamed  in  her  larger-visioned 
eyes. 

"When  he  comes  read  this  together,"  I  said,  and  I 
slipped  the  envelope,  with  the  clipping  inside  it,  into 
her  hands. 

Then  Will  and  I  went  out  through  the  kitchen,  and 
down  the  back  stairs. 


THE   END 


V 

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3  1158  00337  81/0 


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HAROLD  A. 


